An oldie, but it remains the only time I've had the good fortune of photographing an owl.
An owl sat outside our window last night, sending his calls into the wind. Rain was coming and the cool air quickened; he sounded alert, yet resigned. He was so close that I could hear the beginning of each hoot in the base of his throat. A low vibration held deep in his chest that a moment later, became hauntingly beautiful as it permeated the night woods. Melodic. Reminded me of a wooden flute.
The night before, a coyote. So close we could hear the in-between guttural moans that linked each howl together. The hanging on. Our own dog does this, too. It’s like they’re not really committed, maybe even giving up. An attempted howl failing to take flight, releasing instead, a tiny grumble. Did they lose confidence? Get distracted? Change their mind? In the shrinking forest of rural almost-suburbia, there is little distance between us and them. This close, their full personality is revealed which is kind of sad to me, yet also comforting because I find myself relating to their awkwardness, their tentative nature. At least, I tell myself there is something relatable. From a distance we only hear the impressive notes, the ones that define the prowess of their species, but up close we hear the stumble, and it feels familiar.
Eventually the rain came and this morning I found myself hanging on between sleep and wakefulness, not wanting to leave either world: the conscious sound of early morning rain, or the healing depth of rainy morning sleep. I remained here until 6:45, and while the day felt half over at that point, it also felt glorious.