Wait; the great horned owls Calling from the wood’s edge; listen. There: the dark male, low And booming, tremoring the whole valley. There: the female, resolving, answering High and clear, restoring silence. The chilly woods draw in Their breath, slow, waiting, and now both Sound out together, close to harmony.
These are the year’s worst nights. Ice glazed on the top boughs, Old snow deep on the ground, Snow in the red-tailed hawks’ Nests they take for their own. Nothing crosses the crusted ground. No squirrels, no rabbits, the mice gone, No crow has young yet they can steal. These nights the iron air clangs Like the gates of a cell block, blank And black as the inside of your chest.
Now, the great owls take The air, the male’s calls take Depth on and resonance, they take A rough nest, take their mate And, opening out long wings, take Flight, unguided and apart, to caliper The blind synapse their voices cross Over the dead white fields, The dead black woods, where they take Soundings on nothing fast, take Soundings on each other, each alone.
— W.D. Snodgrass
Kenne and W.D. Snodgrass (1999) — Montgomery College Writers In Performance Series
“A serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.
A few days ago I posted, “Capturing The Moment — Great Horned Owl” on this blog. In doing so I really showed my lack of knowledge when it comes to Owls. Even in doing so, I kept thinking, “This guy is small for a Great Horned Owl.” So, I figured he/she was a young Great Horned Owl. After doing more homework, I have now concluded that this owl is a Western Screech Owl. I guess there are not a lot of birders that follow my blog.