He's Still There
We were a little later than usual going out for our ravine walk today. Monday is house-cleaning day, and there's a lot of cleaning to be done routinely around this house.
While I was doing the cleaning my husband was well occupied himself, working up another design for yet another stained glass window, and he's coming along very nicely with it. Studying the Lansdown artwork for inspiration. The windows will have two large roundels each, highlighting birds.
The temperature dipped well below minus-20 C. last night, and warmed up only to minus-10 with a nippy wind by the time we were ready to leave the house. Which meant a sweater under a coat for each of our little dogs, along with booties. It's one thing for them to dip out into the backyard for a few minutes of relief, quite another to bounce along a wooded ravine trail for an hour at these temperatures.
They did very well indeed, despite the boots, since the snow is now well aged but not slippery. Just squeaky-crunchy enough to give them the traction needed to travel downhill and uphill without slipping. We heard a convocation of crows in the near distance, obviously bothered about something, and the thought of the barred owl came to mind. Three weeks since we first saw him, and then again a week later.
But he wouldn't still be around. There were chickadees and nuthatches, and a long, sad and eerie whistle of a train somewhere far off, a sound that evokes childhood memories for both of us. Not a sign of any of the unshelled peanuts we'd left in places where dogs couldn't reach, two days earlier. Too cold for squirrels to be out today; they made good use of yesterday's balmier weather.
Button, as she usually does, chose a path lesser taken, that we occasionally acquiesce to. It's a side-path, changing our loop without shortening the distance taken, but she prefers it. It takes us over a smaller bridge straddling a bit of a gully that runs below and alongside the ridge we were now headed for. Me in the lead as usual; the thought briefly entered my mind that the owl could be in here.
Years ago we'd seen a snowy owl here, come down from the boreal forest, in search of food. I was ascending the first part of the ridge, when my husband urged me to retrace my steps. There was the barred owl again, perched this time much closer than we'd seen him previously, on a slender, bowed trunk of an immature poplar, placidly viewing the terrain inside the gully, a mere 60 feet from where we stood.
We watched him as he observed us. His pearl-grey breast, his amazing size, large eyes fixed in our direction. There was a muted presence in the atmosphere. His unperturbed response to our being there seemed somehow surreal; his size as impressive as his calm. When we finally turned to resume our ramble, he turned, his back toward us, barred and humped, but his head swivelled, watching our progress.
Looking through Lansdown's picturesque tome, my husband had read the barred owl text to me: habitat, food source, behaviour. We've often seen mice tracks in the snow here and moles. Grouse as well, occasionally. The book had noted this bird's good disposition. Good hunting tonight, old chap.
While I was doing the cleaning my husband was well occupied himself, working up another design for yet another stained glass window, and he's coming along very nicely with it. Studying the Lansdown artwork for inspiration. The windows will have two large roundels each, highlighting birds.
The temperature dipped well below minus-20 C. last night, and warmed up only to minus-10 with a nippy wind by the time we were ready to leave the house. Which meant a sweater under a coat for each of our little dogs, along with booties. It's one thing for them to dip out into the backyard for a few minutes of relief, quite another to bounce along a wooded ravine trail for an hour at these temperatures.
They did very well indeed, despite the boots, since the snow is now well aged but not slippery. Just squeaky-crunchy enough to give them the traction needed to travel downhill and uphill without slipping. We heard a convocation of crows in the near distance, obviously bothered about something, and the thought of the barred owl came to mind. Three weeks since we first saw him, and then again a week later.
But he wouldn't still be around. There were chickadees and nuthatches, and a long, sad and eerie whistle of a train somewhere far off, a sound that evokes childhood memories for both of us. Not a sign of any of the unshelled peanuts we'd left in places where dogs couldn't reach, two days earlier. Too cold for squirrels to be out today; they made good use of yesterday's balmier weather.
Button, as she usually does, chose a path lesser taken, that we occasionally acquiesce to. It's a side-path, changing our loop without shortening the distance taken, but she prefers it. It takes us over a smaller bridge straddling a bit of a gully that runs below and alongside the ridge we were now headed for. Me in the lead as usual; the thought briefly entered my mind that the owl could be in here.
Years ago we'd seen a snowy owl here, come down from the boreal forest, in search of food. I was ascending the first part of the ridge, when my husband urged me to retrace my steps. There was the barred owl again, perched this time much closer than we'd seen him previously, on a slender, bowed trunk of an immature poplar, placidly viewing the terrain inside the gully, a mere 60 feet from where we stood.
We watched him as he observed us. His pearl-grey breast, his amazing size, large eyes fixed in our direction. There was a muted presence in the atmosphere. His unperturbed response to our being there seemed somehow surreal; his size as impressive as his calm. When we finally turned to resume our ramble, he turned, his back toward us, barred and humped, but his head swivelled, watching our progress.
Looking through Lansdown's picturesque tome, my husband had read the barred owl text to me: habitat, food source, behaviour. We've often seen mice tracks in the snow here and moles. Grouse as well, occasionally. The book had noted this bird's good disposition. Good hunting tonight, old chap.
Labels: Companions, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:06 PM
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