I know you’ve seen a flock of geese and a litter of kittens, and you’ve probably also seen a herd of deer, a swarm of bees, and a murmuration of starlings, but I doubt that you’ve ever seen a parliament of owls. I can tell you it’s a beautiful thing. Strictly speaking, of course, I didn’t see the parliament of owls outside my bedroom window last week, but I did hear it, and it was one of the most wonderful things I have witnessed in nature, even though I was in my own bed in my own house in the dark at the time.
Seven summers ago, when I moved into my new house, I would hear an owl calling night after night from somewhere near the house, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, but always in the vicinity. One evening, in the fade of twilight, he suddenly swooped close above the floor of the deck, grazing my vision with a dazzling white underlayer of feathers and startling me with his immense size.
I kept trying to find him in the binoculars when I heard him calling, but he was always too hidden in the trees until one night, before the fade of twilight, I heard him in a tree ten yards or so from the deck. Immediately retrieving my binoculars from the house, I raised them to my eyes, searched to orient myself in the larger landscape, found where I thought the owl was – and there he was, clearly focused in my enlarged vision. He was startlingly beautiful, with black bars across a white chest and gorgeous big eyes. But those eyes were staring straight at me! Disconcerted, I lowered the binoculars, feeling vaguely ashamed, as though I had been caught spying. But now I could identify him as a barred owl. I was supposed not to like barred owls because they drive out the more rare spotted owl, but he was so beautiful I couldn’t dislike him. I loved my owl.
I paid a heavy price for capturing him in my binoculars, though: that was the last time he came to my house. For years afterward I heard him in the woods, sometimes closer, sometimes far up the mountain, but never in the woods immediately around my house. I always recognized his beautiful four-syllable hoot with a slight waver at the end. A few years ago I started hearing two owls, a male and a female, according to the timbre of their voices, one higher, one (my owl), in a lower register. One would give a call: “I’m over here!” The other would answer, ”And I’m here.” “I love you-ou-ou.” “I love you, too-oo-oo.” Maybe that’s not what they were saying – I don’t know their language – but they were definitely communicating. I felt in a community of beings with my owls, knowing they were there, knowing they knew I was here. I felt privileged to be included in their woods.
Last week I woke up to hear the owls in the very trees just outside my bedroom window. The first owl, my owl, the one I have known since I moved into the house, had convened a parliament of owls. His voice was the leader’s; I knew it well. I could distinguish at least four, probably six, different voices, all from the same small clump of trees. They had different calls – one with more of a waver, one with a caw-like hoot, one clearly my owl, another clearly the mate I had heard him talking with. The voices were different and the words were different, but the owls were all speaking the same language.
It was a strange parliament. My owl would begin things, bringing the meeting to order. Then everyone else would join in with his or her own words. There would be a jumble of voices, everyone talking on top of everyone else, all those various calls distinguishable one from another. Then they would all fall silent. After a bit, my owl would ask another question, and there would be another mishmash of responses. I’m not sure that anything got accomplished. I’m not sure what was supposed to be accomplished. Maybe it was more of a choir than a parliament, the conductor laying down, then raising again his baton. It went on for about an hour, all that various hooting and cooing and calling. It wasn’t territorial – they were all in one place. It didn’t sound angry; it sounded conversational. It sounded like a parliament of owls taking care of owl business, to which I was a privileged listener.
Seven summers ago, when I moved into my new house, I would hear an owl calling night after night from somewhere near the house, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, but always in the vicinity. One evening, in the fade of twilight, he suddenly swooped close above the floor of the deck, grazing my vision with a dazzling white underlayer of feathers and startling me with his immense size.
I kept trying to find him in the binoculars when I heard him calling, but he was always too hidden in the trees until one night, before the fade of twilight, I heard him in a tree ten yards or so from the deck. Immediately retrieving my binoculars from the house, I raised them to my eyes, searched to orient myself in the larger landscape, found where I thought the owl was – and there he was, clearly focused in my enlarged vision. He was startlingly beautiful, with black bars across a white chest and gorgeous big eyes. But those eyes were staring straight at me! Disconcerted, I lowered the binoculars, feeling vaguely ashamed, as though I had been caught spying. But now I could identify him as a barred owl. I was supposed not to like barred owls because they drive out the more rare spotted owl, but he was so beautiful I couldn’t dislike him. I loved my owl.
I paid a heavy price for capturing him in my binoculars, though: that was the last time he came to my house. For years afterward I heard him in the woods, sometimes closer, sometimes far up the mountain, but never in the woods immediately around my house. I always recognized his beautiful four-syllable hoot with a slight waver at the end. A few years ago I started hearing two owls, a male and a female, according to the timbre of their voices, one higher, one (my owl), in a lower register. One would give a call: “I’m over here!” The other would answer, ”And I’m here.” “I love you-ou-ou.” “I love you, too-oo-oo.” Maybe that’s not what they were saying – I don’t know their language – but they were definitely communicating. I felt in a community of beings with my owls, knowing they were there, knowing they knew I was here. I felt privileged to be included in their woods.
Last week I woke up to hear the owls in the very trees just outside my bedroom window. The first owl, my owl, the one I have known since I moved into the house, had convened a parliament of owls. His voice was the leader’s; I knew it well. I could distinguish at least four, probably six, different voices, all from the same small clump of trees. They had different calls – one with more of a waver, one with a caw-like hoot, one clearly my owl, another clearly the mate I had heard him talking with. The voices were different and the words were different, but the owls were all speaking the same language.
It was a strange parliament. My owl would begin things, bringing the meeting to order. Then everyone else would join in with his or her own words. There would be a jumble of voices, everyone talking on top of everyone else, all those various calls distinguishable one from another. Then they would all fall silent. After a bit, my owl would ask another question, and there would be another mishmash of responses. I’m not sure that anything got accomplished. I’m not sure what was supposed to be accomplished. Maybe it was more of a choir than a parliament, the conductor laying down, then raising again his baton. It went on for about an hour, all that various hooting and cooing and calling. It wasn’t territorial – they were all in one place. It didn’t sound angry; it sounded conversational. It sounded like a parliament of owls taking care of owl business, to which I was a privileged listener.
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