Father’s Day came early this year

"The heart of a father is the masterpiece of nature."

— Antoine François Prévost

Over the past month, I’ve learned the best time of day and locations for owl spotting. It is not a sure thing, and they can switch things up, but most of the time it works.

At 6:38 this morning, when I approached the section of the path where I can usually see one of the youngsters, I was a tad surprised not to find one.

My eyes scoured the tree line and branches.

Nope.

Nothing.

Huh.

I walked around the path by the elm where Owl Mom perches. At first, I didn’t see her either. But the more I peered, bent over, and bobbed my head like a boxer for different angles, I spotted tail feathers.

Relief.

All is well.

Because I have a lot of photos of her already, I decided to move on. But Curiosity nudged me to ask if I was certain I didn’t want to check just to see if she was asleep or not.

I turned back and walked down and across the hill away from her for a less obstructed view. I was far enough away that with my naked eye I could see her shape (chicken in a tree), but it was not until I zoomed in with the camera that I saw it was not Mom, it was…

DAD!

I gasp and mouth the word, “What?!” as if I wasn’t alone.

The back story is that I don’t see Owl Dad often. The few times I have, he was perched close by the baby owlets. Dad is elusive and tiny, and he disappears into the tree as if they are one.

Once, I spotted him far from the family, but only because I was in the right place at the right time as he vocalized from the nook of an elm tree while I walked under it.

In the photos during those few times, his eyes were shut for all but one. Owl Dad reminds me of an old grandpa, feet up in a reclining chair, dozing while the world revolves.

Today, through the camera, I see Dad’s heart-shaped chest with a shock of white feathers across the top and extending down his front. He doesn’t have the same coloring as Mom, who has a lot of orange and color variation. Dad is mostly gray/brown and white with burnt umber undertones. He is the most spot-on color of elm tree bark you can imagine, and his body seems to be made of tree bark, not feathers; the crypsis is that good (see Crypsis in blog 5).

If you ever see him around Owl Mom or hear the two of them, it is obvious he is smaller with a slightly higher-pitched voice. Both traits are characteristics of Great Horned Owl males.

People around here say Mom and Dad have been residents for eighteen years or more. After studying and editing so many photos of the offspring, when I compare them with Dad, he certainly shows his age. Today, his “great-horn” feathers look smashed down and stick out sideways like he took off his baseball cap before going to bed.

While I snapped a couple of photos with his eyes open, Owl Dad never once looked at me today, even after I (unintentionally) crushed some sticks underfoot.

Eyes open or closed, it is always such a treat to see him!

I count myself lucky, and now you are too.