The Owl in the Oak Tree

The owl in the oak tree had huge yellow eyes. He sat motionless on a branch, blending perfectly with the dusky October light and I would never have seen him but for the light breeze that stirred the leaves for a quick instant. I'd never seen an owl in the city before, never mind in Nana's well kept back yard and there was something weirdly witchy about his presence - I didn't know why, but it was spooky and felt wrong. When I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then looked back, it took another several seconds to find him again, like one of the hidden objects puzzles my daddy liked to work. Your eyes can play tricks on you, he used to tell me, Look really hard then relax your eyes and see the whole picture. And like magic, something I'd been staring directly at and not seeing would appear as clear as day. The owl in the oak tree was like that - shrouded and yellow eyed and mysterious, there one minute and gone the next. I decided that my imagination was running away with me and took a tentative step closer - with a whispery flutter, the owl suddenly spread its wings, turned its yellow eyes in my direction and took flight. I instinctively dropped to the grass and covered my head with my hands but the owl soared well past me and glided away. Had I felt a rush of wind from his wings or imagined it? Nana was calling me to supper by then and I ran to tell her of the owl - the somehow magic owl, I was already thinking - she listened absent mindedly while brushing grass off my jeans then reminded me about elbows on the table and told me to finish my milk.

My daddy arrived not long after, frayed and preoccupied from a long day, too tired to eat. I thought of telling him about the owl but didn't - I'd begun to get the idea that the owl might not have wanted anyone to know about him, that maybe it ought to be a secret. By bedtime, I was certain that he had been a magic owl and that grownups wouldn't have been able to see him anyway, better to keep him to myself. I dreamed of his yellow eyes and camouflage feathers, of being being carried away on his wings and flying into the dark night skies to places only imagination could take you. But time passed, nights got colder, and by the first snow I wasn't even sure he'd been real - an owl in the city wasn't at all likely, I knew, and early fall nights with shadows and lights in conflict could easily play games with your eyes. I outgrew the notion of magic owls in oak trees but never completely gave up the possibility.

There are still early fall evenings where shadows and light play in the oak trees and night birds sing. Who knows that a yellow eyed owl might not be watching from the unfallen leaves, watching and waiting to take flight and show off a little magic.