Housatonic — Past twilight, when mid-February dusk is all that remains of a day, I often hear owls calling ghostly, “huff-hoo-hoo-hoo” deep in the fir trees on the ridge across the river.
They’re great horned owls; their calling is purposeful. Though it’s mid-winter, the big owls are nesting. Since they normally remain together for life, they use hooting to help solidify their pair-bond and to mark their territory.
But enough of science and biology.
To a man well past the radius of his life’s circular journey, the dusky owls’ calling suggests hard-learned wisdom he may have forgotten. Indigenous peoples believed that those who saw owls should take the sightings as a sign to stand back from everyday life and turn inward for wisdom found through being quiet and listening to a person’s inner voice.
What could be wiser?
But there’s another, more ultimate note in the owl’s song: If you hear an owl call your name, your death is imminent.
I wonder if I might change imminent to certain. That’s something I can live with.
