I found an owl in the road this morning.
I saw it out of the corner of my eye and at the edge of my headlights, motionless in the pitch-blackness of 6:30 a.m.
Birders talk about the “giss” of a bird—the way you can identify a species by different and possibly fleeting impressions: how does it fly? what is the arc of its wings? Or, as some might put it, what is its vibe? (This use of giss might come from WWII, when “General Impression of Size and Shape” was used to identify military planes—but jizz, meaning the same thing, was first used in 1922, so who knows.) I knew I’d seen an owl even though I’d barely actually seen it. The vibe, you guys, was ancient. Arboreal. Magic.
Anyway. I pulled over and walked toward it as, in the distance, the traffic light switched to green. The owl didn’t fly away, or hop sideways, or do anything but blink its great round eyes. It was between six and eight inches tall, though it seemed to be hunching its shoulders as if to look smaller. It was brown with white flecks, and it did not seem to be aware of the oncoming traffic.
It’s nerve-wracking to stand in the middle of the road, waving your arms as a car bears down upon your person, which is dressed head-to-toe in black, but obviously this part of the story ends well because I’m writing a newsletter.
The first car swerves around me. The second stops and its window slides down. “Is that an owl?” calls the driver.
“Yes,” I say, “and it’s not moving.” I realize I’m shaking. I’m so worried for this bird, and I don’t have any idea what to do. “I don’t know if it got hit or what.”
“Maybe we should take it to the Audubon Society,” he says, and he gets out of the car.
When he says “we,” of course, I want him to mean himself. He should do it, because I’m kind of freaking out.
And it seems he does mean that.
“I have birds at home,” he says. Meanwhile he’s taking off his jacket, and I’m thinking, “A bird owner. What are the chances?”
“If I cover it with something, it’ll stay calm,” he says. He walks right up to the owl. It swivels its head a couple of degrees but otherwise remains utterly motionless. Then he gently places his jacket over the bird and lifts it into his arms. “It’s still not moving very much,” he says.
It occurs to me that the owl could be a fledgling, but isn’t it too early in the season? And wouldn’t a flightless fledgling at least act scared when someone comes at with a coat? Wouldn’t it struggle a little in that sudden confinement?
We get out of the road and talk about just putting the owl at the base of a nearby tree. But we’re right by a church where people run their dogs in the morning. We agree that we can’t just leave it on the ground.
“It’s not trembling,” he says. “It doesn’t seem like it’s in shock or anything.”
“I’m trembling,” I say, which is true. But I say it mostly because I want him to know how ill-equipped I am to deal with an owl.
But he seems to want to deal with the owl. “I’ll take it to the Audubon Society,” he says. “I’ve got a crate in my car that I can put it in.”
I can’t believe it: he just happens to have something in his car that he can put an owl in.
“You’re amazing,” I tell him.
He’s carrying the owl to his car now. The trunk pops open. “I’m good in a crisis,” he says.
“That’s great, because I’m not,” I say. And this might be true, too—I’m not sure. But I’m still offering evidence that he’s the right person to deal with this situation.
He tucks the owl, still inside the jacket, under a milk crate the back of his Subaru. We exchange numbers so he can let me know what happens.
As we drive off in separate directions, I think about what it means to be good in a crisis. And also what it means to be the kind of person who says they are good in a crisis. All through my stupid gym class, which was why I was in my car at 6:30 a.m., I’m thinking about the owl and why it was in the middle of the road and whether or not it’s going to be okay. I have to tell the woman I’m doing press-jacks next to that I found an owl, and that someone else drove away with it, and she wonders if it’s going to be like that scene in Tommy Boy. I tell her that I haven’t seen the movie, but when she describes the scene, I realize that I have. “Yeah,” I say. “I really hope not.”
When I get out of the class I have a text from Ian, the owl rescuer. “My kid named the owl “Rupert” and I will take it to DoveLewis hospital around 8 am.”
The Audubon, it turns out, is closed due to a burst water pipe.
I thank him for the update, and especially for the photo.
Ian texts me again at 8:45. “Just dropped off our baby screech owl friend. They will take care of him and Audubon will safely return him to the area.”
Maybe this is the best news I could get. But it’s the word “baby” that worries me.
What if the owl was really okay? What if he just couldn’t fly?
I ask Ian if they’d said anything about the owl’s condition.
“I’m not sure, we’ll hope for the best!” he texts.
Yeah, I guess we will. I mean, I’ve been hoping it for the last five hours.
I tell myself that I sensed more to Rupert’s vibe—that it wasn’t just magic. That there was something wrong, too, because a wild animal doesn’t just let you walk right up to it.
But did we do the right thing?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
Okay, writers—it’s usually only paid subscribers who can see all of a Wednesday newsletter, but this was too fresh and intense to wait until Friday or put behind a paywall.
Today’s prompts come from my experience this morning, but please now erase it from your minds! Think about your project, your characters, your plots and obsessions. Take three deep breaths. Think about your creative work some more. Take three more breaths. And then write:
•A scene in which someone arrives at the exact moment they are needed, call it fate or serendipity or dumb luck.
or
•A scene in which one of your characters does what they hope is right. But is it? What happens if they are wrong?
Thanks for sharing this, Emily. I think it no coincidence that your "expert" showed up when needed, but I'm also haunted by the possibility the baby was separated from its parents. I once saw a large owl staring at me from a boulder not far from me when I was walking to a bus stop after visiting a friend. It seemed huge and had white spots; may have been a female great horned owl. I didn't dare move, so no picture. I was awed. It felt like a sign from God. Soon I would be celebrating my birthday on the day of the solar eclipse. I felt special.