September Owl

Not long ago, my pond camera captured the fleeting edge of an owl’s wing as it perched in the oak tree—a mere suggestion of its presence in our woods. With the cooler weather, we’ve been sleeping with the windows open, letting in the sounds of the night. There’s a special beauty in hearing the occasional owl call drift through the darkness. Even just knowing they’re out there brings me joy.

Yesterday evening, my phone rang. It was Hannah, whispering, “Don’t make a commotion, but there’s an owl on the clothesline.” She warned me because whenever the pups see my camera, they know there’s something outside—and start barking. The owl had flown from the woods, gliding past her living room window into the yard.

Giddily, I tiptoed outside to fetch the camera I’d left in the car, praying I wouldn’t frighten her away. I began snapping photos of the beautiful barred owl, who perched as if she were a regular in our yard. She seemed unbothered by me, her focus fixed on whatever might be stirring in the tall grass below. I edged forward, pausing to take photos, until I was about 25 feet away. Then I settled on the ground outside the fence gate and watched her for forty minutes.

Even when Paul let the dogs out and wandered into the garden, the owl did not waver.

She glanced around, all but ignoring me, then strutted along the beam to the far end to watch and wait.

Suddenly, a pair of blue jays arrived and took offense at her presence, harassing her with their raucous jeers. The owl puffed up her feathers and clacked her beak in protest.

Eventually, she tired of their intrusion and flew to a fir tree at the pond’s edge, trailed by the persistent blue jays—and by me.

As she flew over the pond, I was startled by the splash of many frogs taking cover in the cattails.

She lingered in the tree for quite some time while I stood across the pond, snapping pictures. Once again, she seemed more concerned about the blue jays than my presence. Growing cold, I thanked her for her visit and went inside.

When Hannah arrived to help make pizza, I led her out to the pond for another glimpse—and the owl was still there. As we watched, she left the shelter of the trees and returned to her roost on the clothesline post.

The pumpkin arch framed her perfectly.

As dusk settled, we finally went inside to make dinner. Every so often, we glanced out the kitchen window—she remained on the clothesline post until, at last, she was gone. I hope she found her meal.

It’s moments like these that remind me how much magic lives quietly at the edge of our ordinary days, waiting for us to notice. The owl may have flown back into the shadows of the forest, but her visit lingers—a gentle reminder to cherish the wild wonders that share our home.