Hooty Owl

Bessie May woke up in the wee hours of the morning, long before daylight, as she often did and just laid there listening to the sounds all around. Besides the quiet of the house, the first thing she heard was a Hooty Owl, far off, probably down in that shag-bark hickory tree by the creek. She could see him in her mind's eye; about the size of a lantern, big faced, big eyed and dark brown.

She had seen one before when she was younger. It floated down out of a tree, without a sound and went past, not six feet from her and disappeared into the woods. She never heard a screech or a wing flap at all. Just seen him float by as quiet as a spider web on the wind. A sight to see!

She knew that he was one of many night-hunters on the prowl in the hollers. And him huntin' in the night was just as natural as a hawk huntin' in the daytime. We was all just lookin' for somethin' to eat ….. and we was all… just somethin' to eat … to somebody else.

She liked to lie still there in her bed and listen to the night sounds. It was a comfort and a wonderful way to drift back off to sleep and dream of her adventures. She had two ways of goin' about that.

One way was to just lie there on her back, with her arms down at her side, relaxed, eyes closed and feeling her breath come in and go out through her nostrils. The air was usually cool in the room and with the covers up under her chin she could feel the warmth of her bed and the coolness of the air entering her nostrils. Breathing in, she was aware of the night air entering her nostrils, then up her nose, down her throat and into her expanding chest. She would breathe deep and it felt good going in and down.

After a short pause while savoring that feeling, she would breathe out and feel her chest go down, the now warm air in her nostrils escaping back into the world. She took her time and felt each breath as it came and went; in, out, in, out. That made her feel wonderful! That's all she was thinkin' about, just that breath movin' in and out. In from the world, back out to the world. Another gift of life. She liked to study on that. She was just receivin' that gift, one breath at a time and then returning it to where it came from.

Another way was to do that kind of breathin', but after a while, just let those thoughts come and go in her head instead of just thinkin' only of her breathin'. Now that was a fascinatin' thing to do. She was all relaxed by that breathin' in and out and thinkin' about that, then she would just watch her thoughts go by like clouds passin' in the sky, or leaves floatin' by in a stream.

She noticed how one thought would lead to another and another; how the first would pass and another take its place. She didn't latch on to any of 'em, just watched 'em come and go like her breath. In from the world and back out to the world. Peaceful.

Bessie May had also discovered that she didn't have to be in the bed and it didn't have to be dark for this wonderful breathin' to make her feel peaceful and thankful. She worked at it at different times, in different places. One favorite spot bein' her sittin' place, down in the near woods. This was a ledge of rock where she could sit down and lean her back up against another rock with her feet right on the ground. It was in a fine shady spot, private and far enough away from the house that she couldn't hear the chickens cackle and the like. Quiet, peaceful, inviting. A nearbout holy place; leastwise to her.

She'd sit there and do her breathin', eyes open or closed accordin' to the circumstances and feel that wonderment come over her. Sort of like how she felt when she seen that man down at the spring. She also found out that she could do her special breathin' while walking, or doin' chores and the like. That helped her keep her mind on what she was doin' and helped her feel free at the same time.

On this particular early, dark morning she decided to do her breathin' and whilst doin' that, to think of all the creatures skitterin' about out there in the dark. Think about the creatures, then think about how good that breathin' felt. Just back and forth like that. Wasn't too long and she began to recollect some of those furry and feathered folks she had seen on the ridge, down in the holler and up in the sky.

She 'visioned that owl and what he was likely up to right now … sittin' up in that hickory, searching all around for a meal, waitin' for a noise, or a flutter, or a weed to take to movin'. And when he spied his prey, he'd be on it like a chicken on a June Bug. Supper!

Then there were the sparrows that roosted with the chickens in the henhouse. Not on the roost with 'em, but on a roost of their own. They were safe in there and had plenty of spilled grain to eat at the expense of a clumsy chicken. One little sparrow in particular had him a place that she had seen one evening when she picked up the eggs later than usual.

He had him a roost atop an old, rotted-off rafter, right next to the tin roof. What a fine home he had found. Warm and dry and away from climbing enemies. What was left of the rafter was just a stub, so he didn't have to worry about no company bein' up there and running him off his perch. She thought it was probably right cozy up there when it rained and he could hear it on that tin roof … the wind a howlin' outside and all …. and him on his little perch, noddin' off to sleep.

A field mouse and his family also liked the privacy of the henhouse when it was locked up for the night. No worries in there about the fox and the cats or that old owl for that matter. Pretty good place to be in hard times cause them messy chickens was always leavin' good food about for the mice to carry back home. And the sparrows were asleep, like the chickens, so the mice had the run of the place.

But, back outside, it was a different story all together. Folks of feather and fur alike had to be on watch every minute, lest death fall upon them from out of the dark. Sleep was more of a nervous drowse and hunting took lookin' over your shoulder as much as seekin' out a meal. It was: be alert, or be supper. It wasn't no more to that owl to snatch up a sleepin' bird than it was for you to go pick an apple. No, sir, no different; and with the same result, to the owl's way of thinkin'. Never thought a thing about it. It was just what he does and he did it real good.

Field Mice on the outside lived a different life than those in the henhouse. The cover of darkness didn't mean much to owls and weasels and foxes. And the cats could see 'em just like it was daytime. They was nervous all the time and didn't linger much in one place. Always searchin' and runnin' back to their hole. And, too often, the hole wasn't safe either, when some cow snake came a slitherin' in one end of it and laid in there just a waitin' on one of 'em to come home. Dangerous.

There was a lot goin' on out there in the dark. Bessie May was glad to be snugged in her bed as she went back to thinkin' on her breathin'. Slowly ... in and out, in and out. And then, just easy, driftin' back to sleep.

Phil Miller