The Owls Are Not What They Seem

The family of tyto alba refered to in an earlier post make their nest fifteen feet up in the hollowed-out bole of a tree just across from my bedroom window. Besides allowing wonderful owl-watching opportunities this also means that my slumbers are serenaded by the birds' crepuscular shriekings. At first this was slightly disturbing - 'eldritch' is the obvious, if unsettling, choice of adjective. But this nightly chorus of long, low, rasping, drawn out screeching has become a kind of serenade, enlivened by the occasional sight of a white wing flashing through the greenery above the wall. Two nights ago, in the middle of our August gales, I was lullabied by the insistent counterpoint of the south-west winds moving through the trees of the garden in the evening, their threshings hitting the beat of the owls' shrieks just often enough to lull me into a profound and restful sleep . . .