There’s always an owl watching, I’ve come to feel.

At least it seems that way this week. After the annual mowing of our field, a barred owl has taken up residence, tree by tree, on the perimeter. He’s in my ancient apple tree, perfectly blended with the gray bark, when I walk out first thing in the morning — not in an upper branch (that’s for hawks), but shoulder-high, and close to the trunk. Incognito. Discreet.

Then the poplars (see above). Then he’s perched on top of the utility pole or on the power line by the road. He even sits astride my mailbox. He’s waiting for me. He allows a close-up before winging on to his next observation post. Places to go, people to see, mice to descend upon — hence the field mowing coincidence. Dinner is served.

My daughter named him Roger Daltrey. Ten days later he’s still appearing reliably, morning and evening, in the customary perches. What
rock star hair. I creep closer for my photo op before he spreads his extra wide wings and swerves to a new tree to scan a different part of the field.

I am not worthy of his excessive attention. He merits mine. By the time you realize an owl is looking at you, awaiting your attention, many minutes have passed. How many? Only the owl knows for sure. But it’s a sure thing that he saw you first and nonchalantly awaited your discovery of his gaze. And when you finally confront him face to face, it feels as if you are the last to arrive at a meeting. Late again, he thinks. I haven’t got all day. Tick tock.

Last night, two owls conversed out front, staking out their territory and hunting plans. Did we forget that an owl is a hunter? Richard Wilbur didn’t. We mollify the spooked child who hears “Who cooks for you?” with the story of feathered, literary interlocutor, digressing past …

the sound of stealthy flight
… with some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

The crows know. They broadcast everything that’s going on in the forest and fields, if you remember to heed their alerts. When they start
caucusing particularly loudly, my first guess is an owl has approached too close to their nesting tree — a threat. Does the owl care? Not particularly.

I’ve seen them shirk the crows’ harassment. The robins too, at dusk, will summon their numbers to roust an owl from nest proximity. The owl offers indifference, for a while, then moseys along. We forget that an owl is an apex predator.

Along the verge of the same field there’s always a deer too. The number of times I’ve walked the road and looked up to find a doe warily watching. A few days ago, two young bucks, their horns in velvet, did the same — await from a safe distance, then run off and avoid the encounter. They hold my gaze, then turn and flee. They are not interested in conversation.

And I’ve come to feel that there are usually bears nearby, more often than not — it’s just that they are shy and make their visits hoping to go
undetected. Owls and deer worry less about that. My trail cam tells me that one bear in particular schedules his visits in July, most summers, coming to the same exact spot where my camera records his stopover. Thank you, Bruno. It’s nice of you to check in. How’s the winter treated you? Awaiting blueberries? I know where you’ll find raspberries nearby — but so do you. Enjoy.

After almost two weeks in residence, two weeks in conversation, two weeks of being an owl paparazzo, Roger has moved on. Another field down the road, far larger, was mowed yesterday — fresh pastures for my apex friend to forage. I expect he’ll be back.

As the days get colder, the light wanes and the mice take cover under a blanket of snow, I’ll know Roger is around when he leaves his wing-prints on the new-fallen snow. Dinner is served.