No Heroes: A Memoir of Coming Home

Burying an Owl

I rise with the birds and step into the silky light of dawn. The sky is an old chalkboard in need of a wash. Morning mist lends a fragility to the land, as if the woods are draped with lace. The woods are heavy with summer, each leaf burdened by the weight of life. A rotten log breaks like cake beneath my boots. Landscape is imprinted in me with such ferocity that my very marrow is made of earth.

A great horned owl has lain in my refrigerator for six months since I found it on the interstate last fall. It was by the road, one wing aimed up like a tombstone to flight. The bird is eighteen inches tall with a wingspan of nearly three feet. The plumage is golden brown. Its tail feathers are stiff and strong, acting as a rudder for soundless travel. The claws are big as my hands, its beak as sharp as a blade.

The owls head wears the tufted feathers that give it a name. Native Americans consider owls bad luck. Ancient Egyptians thought they were good luck. To the Babylonians, hooting owls were the ghosts of women who died in childbirth, calling for their babies.

Fog turns the air white between the trees. Distant foliage is hidden as if by scrim. It is the varied sounds of the woods I will miss the most — leaves in wind, the rise and fall of distant locust, a jarfly’s rattle, the frogs at night, birds at dawn, the sharp sound of a stick snapping in cold air.

Owls are the only bird whose eyes face forward. They roam at night. They are big and loud, but kill in swift silence. Owls are so much like humans that we are afraid of them. A sudden rain spatters the woods, making a steady sound like a creek inside a cave. Distant trees are grayed by mist. A dead bird is in my arms.

I am tampering with the natural order since no crows will peck the remains, insects wont nest in its hollow bones. We have killed the owl’s only predator, the big cats, and now we are limiting its habitat. Owls fly along creeks. They do not understand bridges and an owl will often shatter its neck against the side of a truck. I have buried seven such owls around the country. They visit me in my dreams.

I hold the owl close to my chest to shelter it from rain. A terrible brush with man took its life, and its final touch should be one of kindness. I dig a hole and gently place the owl inside the walls of earth. I fill the space, set a rock on the dirt, and sprinkle last fall’s leaves over it. There is nothing to be said.

Everything I own is stacked in boxes. I look at the woods and want to remain. The owl lies below humped earth at my feet. I am saying good-bye.