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.
The last morning of February feels like the first day of spring. The redbud is finally beginning to bloom, surrounded by a circle of elegant white irises. A squirrel perches on the walnut tree stump, teasing Daisy who watches from the deck. The owl looks outside his box, catching the morning light.
The moment I walked into Willis’ paddock the cold front blew in.
Yesterday morning there was a dove stuffed in the entrance of Tim’s box, hanging upside down, beheaded.
The sky was a blanket of clouds as I pulled out of the driveway, the temperature dropping with each mile on Hwy. 290. By the time Daisy and I reached Scattered Oaks it was 36 degrees; icy moisture sprayed our faces.
Time began for light and life, for splendor and grandeur. Time began for seas and mountains, for flowers and birds. Time began for the valleys to ring with the songs of life, And for the wilderness to echo with the wailing of wind
December is an in-between time here, not fall and not winter. Autumn lingers, its golden mornings stretching through December. Here and there, a sudden cold front snaps us all to attention, freezing plants forgotten outside and reminding us to dig out warm coats and boots.
Each morning I walk the arroyo with Daisy and watch the Spanish oaks transform themselves, their leaves deepening to maroon.
Daisy waits patiently while our new foster dog, Rose, chews diligently on her rawhide bone. Daisy has her own bone, but what she really wants is Rose’s bone.
