It’s a damp autumn morning, the ground wet from rain. Droplets hang off of leaves and twigs. My enthusiastic Australian shepherd, Freya, keenly runs ahead of me on the trail around our pond with a stick in her mouth. I follow her and duck under a spread of willow branches hanging over the path.
Suddenly – a rustle, a rush of air, an expanse of blurred brown above me. I can feel a breeze hit my face and instinctively, I flinch. But not before I see the wings of a very large bird swoop ahead and then settle in the willow tree at the back of the pond.
“Freya!” I call my dog back and catch my breath, trying to make out what on earth that creature is. It looks like an owl. I get a good look and then turn and run for my camera.
Five minutes later, I’m back with camera in hand and lungs puffing. I don’t see the bird at first, but then my eye catches on a dark brown shape in the same willow tree. Then I begin my routine whenever I want to photograph an animal: take a shot, step a few feet closer, take another shot, inch forward, take a couple more . . . ever so slowly making my way towards its perch.
The owl watches me, and at one point it spreads its wings and launches into the air. I think I’ve lost it, perhaps annoyed it too much. Until I find it again in a different part of the tree. This time, it doesn’t make any indication of leaving.
Magically, improbably, I continue to get closer and closer.
At this point I’m almost directly below it. It stares at me fixedly and I feel pinned in place. It’s not a problem, though; I can take in the quilted masterpiece of its feathers, the bright yellow of its eyes shining out from the shadows, its tufted ears confirming my suspicions of what exactly I’ve stumbled across.
The photos below showing the dilation in its pupils are a good example of what it was like to be under its intense gaze. I had good reason to feel like prey.
Then it begins to relax. I watch in wonder as it takes its stare off of me and peers into the distance, blinking and winking every so often. For a while it turns its attention to Freya and seems rather interested in her. She, oblivious to it all, places a stick by my feet and glances up hopefully at me. No way – sticks will have to wait.
After a while longer of watching the owl, I thank it for allowing me to come so closely.
With any subjects in my photography, I try not to overstay my welcome. And it feels like time to go. So I start back down the path and duck under the willow branches again, as if I’m going through a door back into reality. All the while a yellow gaze follows my movements.
A few nights later, the eerie, ghostly hoots of a pair of owls emanate from the willow trees. Waiting for darkness, watching for what they seek.
Thank you for reading. This post is part of a new series, An Avian Anthology, that I’ll be releasing throughout the next few months. Expect to see eagles, hummingbirds, hawks, and more!
Excellent story and photos Hazel!
Thank you!