There was something different about the owl this week. On Wednesday, instead of sitting tall and upright in a corner of the box the owl was bent over, tearing at something along the edge of the box. This is the first time the owl has brought food into the box.
The Harris hawk, a female, sits on the gloved hand of her handler. She is a deep chocolate brown with splashes of chestnut on her feathers. Her legs are rusty brown also, stretching to white feet marked by black tips. She is remarkably social, if a bit nervous, and doesn’t seem to mind the crowd of people edging toward her.
The owl was not in the box this morning. Or yesterday. And probably not the day before either (when I didn’t check) because he did not poke his head out of the entrance as the sun set. It was too dark to see clearly then, but usually I can detect a shadow, the outline of his face protruding from the box.
Where is winter? The early cold snap in November has faded, forgotten in the month’s 70-degree temperatures. Each front brings a welcome drop in temperature, but I sit here and think of snow in Montana and Wyoming and I am envious. Poor Willis in his heavy coat. We ride in breezy, sunny afternoons and his fur is damp with sweat.
When I step outside the cold air brushes my face. 38º. Winter. This is how the last day of the year should feel: cold. The owl is tucked into his box. He is the best gift to us this year. To be able to watch him guard the place we have made for him and raise a family will be the best gift of 2020.
Willis was treated to a myofascial release session yesterday from Chase of Cadence Therapy. It is deep work, but at the same time light work. Watching, it doesn’t look like Chase is doing much, but Willis obviously feels something judging from his licking, chewing on his crossties and lead rope, turning his head sharply to the side to watch her.
Yellowstone is gradually settling into fall. As the light changes and the temperature falls, mountain slopes and valleys slowly turn golden even as snow dusts the peaks of the Absaroka range. The Junction Butte Pack has moved into Lamar Valley.
There is still light over the mountains and a dusting of snow shines in the fading light. It is almost 10 p.m. I took a brief walk after dinner, gazing up at the tall lodge pines and the crescent moon. Soda Butte Creek rushes past our little cabin. When we arrived yesterday, it began to snow; fat, wet flakes that quickly melted on the deck and under the pines.