A Prince Of Darkness At Sunrise
Dawn in an old-growth forest. Faint light at the edge of a bog. Swamp lanterns and a lone hunter in subtle silhouette. Strix varia. Barred owl. Ghost.
A feathered prince of darkness waits patiently for a mouse to make its move, though his intentions will not become apparent for nearly twenty minutes.
I crawl on hands and knees, moving awkwardly through a patch of Western Sword Ferns, dry leaf litter (which rustles with every gesture), and buried, brittle branches that seem to snap without permission at each awkward endeavoring to move a bit closer.
My vain attempts at stealth are laughable to ears who can hear a mouse breath at fifty paces, which convinces me to own my awkward disturbances while projecting a sort of nonchalant respect, rather than pretending to deceive, thereby implying some actual threat.
I reach forward to detach a pencil-thin branch aimed at my forehead before proceeding further, a muffled snap. My companion’s head pivots counter-clockwise until two intensely black circles pierce me from behind a cedar veil. I nod, lower my eyes and whisper a quiet, “good morning.” We consider one another within the muddled gloom.
My threat level is assessed and dismissed. He again turns away.
I sit motionless for a while, quieting my unseemly eagerness and breath, practicing patience in well-meaning solidarity with this night hunter who has crossed the borderland into a morning in mid-May.
Light builds slowly and colors begin to emerge. Differences and distances between things become more apparent.
Minutes pass. His alert posture relaxes, his back curves forward and his head pulls in until I am convinced he is dozing.
He is not.
Robins in three directions are announcing their earnest intentions to all within earshot as the tops of the tallest trees begin to glow in sunlight. A Pacific wren trills in the ravine below and in the brief silence that follows between verses, the distinct, migratory peep of a Swainson’s thrush. This is the second time I have heard evidence of one of these woodland troubadours in as many days, though I have yet to see one. They are notoriously elusive. And the thin gruel of this one-note travel call stands in wild defiance of a vast trove of hidden, vocal capabilities, unused; that haunting, soaring, upward-spiraling aria that will lilt through whichever high-canopied forest cathedral he eventually chooses as home.
I am holding a heavy camera with binoculars strapped to my chest while my folded right leg threatens to cramp beneath me and my left shin, still swollen and warm from a humbling fall in similarly faint light two weeks prior complains incessantly about the lump of fir bark biting, both into its wounded derma and the serenity of this otherwise bucolic scene, a painful affront hidden beneath an inch of rustling leaves in stasis.
Light levels are still too faint for sharp, hand-held pictures but I raise my camera occasionally anyway, firing off a few frames to allow those unnatural camera sounds to acclimate in owl ears while I reassess my slowly, upward-creeping shutter speed possibilities and keep the camera from resetting itself by falling asleep, yet again.
Impossibly long wings unfold then in apparition and the owl glides downward a dozen feet, then pounces.
I must remember how to breathe.
Immense, swamp cabbage leaves shudder and sway while concealing both owl and prey. I wait, trying to visualize the drama behind this inconvenient opacity, assigning victory to feather and claw over whisker and scurry, though without a stitch of actual proof. Mouse becomes meal with a single, head toss and gulp. I can almost see it.
More minutes pass. Distant crows. Tirelessly repetitive robins. A pair of chatty, Chestnut-backed Chickadees. A Song Sparrow wings in to observe this bog tussle from a higher, clearer vantage than I dare, then leaves without comment.
An Orange-crowned Warbler alights nearby and begins to sing…
Moments later this Prince of Darkness reappears, levitating upward on a single wingbeat, alighting soundlessly on a moss-covered branch in a moss-cloaked tree, within a warm pool of newborn sunlight barely a dozen feet beyond his initial perch. And this time I have an unobstructed line of sight. Click-click. Click-click.
No storybook vampire would ever write such a move.
The owl turns momentarily to consider me once again while the camera records it, then calmly shifts his gaze, first to the bog, frame left and then the forest floor, directly below. Several studied minutes dissolve between us, perfect, sunlit, prince-of-darkness, fairytale minutes where he waits patiently for another mouse-tailed chess piece to make its fatal move; knight takes pawn.
He waits some more, then wings even deeper into the awakening forest to alight, ghostlike upon yet another branch, assess a new scene, match wits with some newly unsuspecting rodent before feasting: spring-fattened vole livers, dew-damp mouse toes.
In the end there are no fond farewells. My hunter friend does not look back or say goodbye. He simply takes wing and disappears.
If something mystical passed between us during that hour together it is up to me to make something meaningful of it. I did not come away endowed with new, magical powers or special insights. You do not need to treat me better, though I may need to treat you better.
The world before us glistens and glows in rare, perfect moments, but we have no control over when, or if they’ll show. We simply make ourselves available, day after day. We show up. We pay attention. We give ourselves over to opportunities.
Turn here, said some faint voice of intuition. Slow down. Extra quiet, now…
“Well, there you are…” I whisper when I finally see the silhouetted form I’d sensed several minutes before.
Now I make my way past a tiny waterfall and toward the ecstatic claims of a Western Tanager who arrived in these woods just this past week. As I approach he goes silent. I step off the trail to let a German Shepherd and her earbud wearing owner pass. We smile and nod in friendly acknowledgement, while in that moment standing in completely different worlds, listening for entirely different things.
They disappear. I continue to look up and wait.
“I know you’re still here…” I whisper toward a towering Doug Fir. “I can feel you.”
And in that moment, like the owl, he appears.
Articulating clunky human limbs .
Why can’t I perch on a hidden tree limb to capture this moment, so unfair.
I feel it an accurate assessment that your determination to get the exquisite shot, is equal to the Barred ‘s in his meal selection . I would also venture to say that you also share the necessity of it. You, for the love of it. And maybe there is some truth to say, you both do it to survive, or a better word would be , thrive . I am so grateful to understand both. (I am honored to share my yard with a gorgeous pair of Barred owls).
“The world before us glistens and glows in rare, perfect moments, but we have no control over when, or if…”
Your words portray your love.
Thank you for this. I was thrilled to hear the Swanson's Thrush peep day before yesterday. Your paragraph describing my favorite bird is spot on and exquisite. But, this paragraph: "The world before us glistens and glows in rare, perfect moments, but we have no control over when, or if they’ll show. We simply make ourselves available, day after day. We show up. We give ourselves over to opportunities." It's a description of life's sweetness that I've been trying to articulate lately. Thank you for doing it so perfectly!