New Family on the Block

The Sandman lightly dusted my eyelids; his magic working as sleep crept upon me, and the cares of the day lifted. As I drifted into deep slumber a sudden noise shattered the silence … a loud plop outside the bedroom door. Instantly I was alert. What was that noise?

Dave was away at work, a drive in - drive out position, which left me home, with no means of transport, for eleven days. Not that I mind … solitude is a state of mind, distinctly separate from loneliness. It was only in those moments prior to sleep the knowledge that silence and the moon were my sole companions, entered my awareness. During daylight hours I had numerous outdoor chores to tackle, while in the evenings I had the option of indulging in one of the many craft projects waiting for a moment of my time.

No sense in lying in bed huddled under the covers! If in doubt, and I was, investigate. In the dim moonlight, I reached behind to the bed-head shelf for the green slim-line torch kept for awkward occasions such as this. I shook out my slippers [spiders have a perchance to set up temporary residence inside shoes and clothing, especially if they have been recently worn], shoved my feet in them, and gingerly made for the door, a thin beam of torchlight showing the way. Whew! I breathed a sigh of relief. A pair of grey overalls hanging on a hook on the laundry wall had fallen to the floor. The day’s warming-up caused the backing to lose some of its stickiness. The hook could easily be reattached in the morning.

Back in bed my, by then, over-stimulated mind raced into overdrive travelling swiftly from one possibility of what it could have been to another, each scarier than the previous. What, I imagined, if it had been a snake … not that I have ever seen one anywhere near the house … thank goodness! Or if the blue tongue lizard was shut indoors. Or even if a kangaroo had hurtled through the garden crashing into the wall as it hurried by.

Earlier that evening a bird, silently flying directly above my head, had frightened me. I had let out a little scream … then realised it was a waste of time, as I was the only one here.

I had hurried indoors, and once a sense of calmness returned, concluded it must have been an owl. A few nights before, as I sat sewing in the quietness of the kitchen, a commotion near the glass sliding door captured my instant attention. As I listened, it seemed as though someone was trying to come in the door. I sat still! But the noise continued, and in an effort to bring commonsense into the equation, I hurried towards the door flinging open the curtains. A large silent shape flew off. As darkness had fallen the only bird it could possibly be was an owl.

I must admit to a surge of fear. From the deep recesses of my mind, tales of owls sprung to the fore. An owl was a bird of doom, it flew in the dark of the night, and it foretold the death of someone, especially if that person was ill and the owl landed on their windowsill. The death of Julius Caesar had been prophesied by the hooting of an owl.

Dave was away. Had he been involved in a work accident? Surely his employers would have phoned to tell me. I pushed the dark thoughts out of my mind and told myself it was only an owl, and an owl is simply a bird that flies, and hunts, at night. Drifting back to sleep I consciously dismissed such silly notions.

However, upon rising, the first thing I did was look upwards to the gum trees with their rough-bark coated trunks and tall slim branches and an umbrella-like canopy. Slowly as my gaze focused upon a fork in the branches I glimpsed an owl, its plumage perfectly camouflaged against the coarse textured bark.

Much earlier this year, in the heat of summer when sleep was impossible until almost dawn, three owls visited us. One day they appeared, sitting on the ground near the BBQ, blending into the background of a table constructed around a clump of trees so successfully it was almost impossible to see them … unless you paid particular attention. Later they relocated, perching in the trees directly above their original resting place. Perhaps these owls were the same ones?

As the morning wore on my curiosity was completely aroused. Wandering outside I peeked skywards. To my delight I spied not one owl, but two. An owlet stared down inquisitively. It fluttered its wings and bumbled drunkenly along the branch, while I watched and hoped it wouldn’t fall to the ground. A photo opportunity! It wasn’t until the photo was downloaded I noticed there were two owlets, and one adult. A family of owls right outside the back door!

Evening approached, the sun lay low in the pale western sky. Now was the moment for serious bird watching. I pulled the chair near the door, slid open the curtain for better viewing, and waited. The clock ticked the moments by. Six thirty. In the soft light of dusk, stretching like a narrow velvet ribbon between day and night, both owlets flapped their wings, reaching skywards. It became obvious they were not fully fledged as they bobbed to and fro, balancing precariously high above the ground.

The sun set. The light grew dimmer. The adult flew away, to return a few minutes later with sustenance for the babies. Had she captured moths? She fed the adventurous one, the larger owlet that had scrambled along the branch earlier in the day, and which must have been the first hatched. By now the sun had completely set and viewing became difficult, although it was still possible to watch the increased activity by the babies ... flapping and stretching in a concerted effort to strengthen wings in readiness for their own journey into the wide yonder. Another dark shadow swooped by … a second adult arrived with more food. There, right on my back doorstep a family of owls lived and bred, raising the next generation. All the myths I had retained from childhood stories faded as I gazed, in awe, from my front-row stalls seat.