It is 17 degrees and the sun is rising as Angus and I walk through the park. The morning sparkles; frost outlines every limb, every pine needle, every seed bud waiting for spring.
Three days ago, I saw a barred owl along this wooded path. Big and stripey-brown, it was perched on a branch right above our heads, watching us with its huge dark eyes. I stopped in amazement — my first barred owl! — and then I moved on, so as not to spook it.
Every morning since then Angus and I have headed along this same trail, hoping for a second sighting of that magnificent bird. Well, I'm hoping for a second sighting. Angus just wants to smell things.
Today, the hard-packed snow squeaks under my boots and the winter air chills my face. I slow, scanning the treetops. Angus slows, sniffing the ground. He is content to follow my pace. Take it slow. Or fast. Whatever. He does his thing, I do mine. We are excellent winter walking partners.
In summer, walks are more fraught — there is simply too much going on. Squirrels, joggers, stinging insects, kids on skateboards (the worst), dogs, rabbits (the other worst), picnickers and bicyclists; the park is a busy place when the weather is warm, and the commotion makes Angus anxious.
But early on a January morning, we are mostly alone. The woods are quiet, but for the drilling of a woodpecker. Angus is able to relax and be a dog instead of a watchdog. He sniffs and meanders.
I hear crows screaming, look up, and there it is — the barred owl, its broad wings spread wide as it swoops through a tangle of branches, two crows chasing it. It lands on a branch.
If I had my good camera, and my long lens, and if I didn't have Angus to hang onto, I could get a great photo — one of the crows is now perched about 6 inches from the owl, beak wide open, cawwwwing furiously. The owl actually looks as if it's cringing.
