Our tour began in Galway where we were picked up by our host, Cait, and driven to Moycullen and Curra Farm where we spent the first three nights of our trip. The stone farmhouse is nestled along the shore of Lough Corrib, the largest lake in the Republic of Ireland and bordered by forest and pastures.

I watched the owl leave tonight. 6:25 p.m. Each evening a little later as the sun sinks behind the horizon. If I were outside, I would absorb the silence of the day’s shadows. It is almost the end of January. Soon his mate will arrive. We hope. He has not left the box since he arrived. The day he is not there will be a sign.

The owl huddles in the corner of the box. He perches in the entrance in late afternoon or the middle of the day if it’s warm. The past few days he has left the box at somewhere between 6:30 and 6:45 p.m.; shooting out of the box and swooping down, he flies over the fence toward the greenbelt. A couple of days passed when he wasn’t in the box, but they were only isolated episodes.

A river of life has passed under me. I feel like I’m standing on a bridge watching the past months rush by. Here I am looking toward the end of summer, trying to grasp all that has happened and take in and appreciate this new place.

The owlets are now about 21 days old. They look like tiny ostriches when they stretch their necks and heads up and rotate their faces. Staring straight into the camera, they do not know they are being watched. The owl box is the only world they know, with its cedar shavings and scattered feathers.

I filled the bird feeder this morning and it is half full now. I should slip out and pour more seed in the back feeder. House finches, cardinals, bluejays, and a chickadee all feast on sunflower seeds. They must have nests nearby.

It is a noisy morning in the backyard this first day of April, this Easter Sunday - doves cooing, grackles whistling and bluejays squawking. Wednesday’s rain has left the ground soft and revived the grass. A grackle perches on the sunflower seed feeder; he shimmies down the cage and pokes his long black beak in between the grate squares, black feathers shiny in morning light.

I look at the empty entrance of the owl box and feel only sadness, mostly for the male owl. There is still time for him to find another mate, but disappointment weights on me right now. I have not heard him during the night and can’t find him roosting in the wax leaf ligustrums.

Somehow I sensed it when I looked at the owl box this morning and the owl was not peeking out as he has done every morning since September. Somehow I knew he was not there.

Yesterday morning there was a dove stuffed in the entrance of Tim’s box, hanging upside down, beheaded.