It was cold this morning, -9 degrees, so the recent snow is being preserved fresh as new. On the ski trail there was little evidence that much of anything has been on the move since the blizzard. A few deer tracks, but no sign of cottontails or squirrels or smaller rodents. I’m sure, under nearly a foot and a half of snow, the mice and voles are having a hay day, going about their routines, tunneling their way to food. A thick blanket of white not only provides a layer of excellent insulation but allows them to stay hidden from the sharp eyes of predators, like owls.
I read that in winter a screech owl eats about a quarter of its body weight in food every day, which amounts to around two plump mice or four chickadees. No doubt, under current conditions birds are making up the bulk of the owl’s diet. I picture a chickadee at roost, absolutely motionless in heavy cover. Nearby, the screech owl sits on a perch, alert, scanning its territory. After a time the chickadee flicks its tail, just once, a tiny adjustment, but enough to blow its cover. The owl bobs its head, calculating its approach, then swoops in silently and discreetly for the kill. It’s tough out there, where a flick of a feather can prove fatal, where the odds of survival can rely as much on luck as strength.
A lot of folks in Texas aren’t feeling very lucky today. Millions are without power following the storm that fed our blizzard and sent freezing temperatures all the way to the gulf. Water pipes are bursting, the electricity grid collapsing, natural gas lines failing. Cold-stunned sea turtles are being rescued by the thousands and moved to a convention center to be gradually warmed. Welcome to the Anthropocene.
There are dozens upon dozens of birds at the feeder. In an explosive moment they flush and scatter, and a Cooper’s hawk alights nearby. A single nuthatch left behind is rock still, like a roosting chickadee. Keep that tail steady.
Near the house, the deer sniffed out the lush rye cover crop in the vegetable garden and pawed through the snow and tore the place up not unlike a bunch of hogs. The precise outline of the garden is now easy to see. The rye will be fine, the deer found sustenance, all is well.
On our ski-about we came across a murder of crows raising a raucous. As we neared, a great horned owl flushed and flew about 20 feet overhead, the crows in hot pursuit. Crows are known to mob owls relentlessly and in the doing they perpetuate a long held grudge, because once upon a time an owl killed a crow and crows do not forget nor forgive.
Female great horns are very likely incubating eggs, which seems an incredibly odd thing to do in midwinter but they do it anyway. The mated pair share incubation duties or one brings food to the other at the nest. The eggs cannot be exposed to cold or left unattended for more than a few moments. On these cold, snow packed winter nights, a great horned owl must experience the same challenges as a screech owl in securing food, with small rodents being scarce on the menu. Crows, being the wizards they are, have cached food so it’s readily available. In this way they can stay well fed, full of vigor, and always ready to terrorize hungry owls for the sheer joy it brings.
So go the days of winter, where mystery and delight and wholesome entertainment lie just beyond the window. Spring will come soon enough. Already, the lengthening days have stimulated a few birds to sing, but by most measures we are in deep winter. And just beyond earshot of political news and mutant viral strains and a host of worldly concerns, the drama of life and death in the natural world is playing out. It’s there in all seasons, but somehow commands more respect and appreciation when times are harsh, when snow is deep and ice thick and we’re wrapped in genuine cold. We’re invited to be aware and engaged, alert to a whimsical world of intrigue and balance, and see our role in it.
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