Burrowing Owls

Burrowing Owls

We drove to Florida,

In search of burrowing owls.

No trailhead.

No signpost.

Just a tip: "Try the library.”

Looking at the vacant lot,

I did not notice them at first.

Weeds.

Brown grass.

Wait—two eyes.

No, four.

They are there.

Hidden.

They had been there all along.

Burrowing owls!

Small sentries.

In a sunburnt field.

Standing dutifully on sandy mounds.

Not even 12 inches tall.

The ground is their home.

Hollowed tunnels.

In South Florida sand.

Each burrow designated.

By wooden stakes.

Adorned by a wooden perch.

They live beside sidewalks.

They live in vacant lots.

They live in front yards,

With perfect grass.

You can call a number.

Get instructions.

Build a mound.

The owls will come.

No shrubs.

No trees.

They want a clean view,

To watch for danger.

In February, only the adults.

Alert.

Unblinking.

Stoic.

By April, the story changed.

Tiny heads.

Wobbling legs.

Wide eyes.

Fluff and wonder.

The babies had arrived!

I walked the neighborhoods.

100–500mm lens in hand.

Teleconverter clicked in place.

I saw them.

They saw me.

They look to my right.

They look to my left.

Rarely making eye contact.

Yellow eyes.

Sometimes brown.

Wide as moons.

If the adult cries out,

The babies vanish underground.

It's like watching a magic trick,

Performed by feathered magicians.

Some say they look like old men.

I say: They look like charming lawn ornaments.

Tiny sentinels with trust issues.

Always on duty.

Always a delight.