The Daily Bucket is a place to catch your casual observations of the natural world and turn them into a valuable resource. Whether it's the first flowers of spring or that odd bug in your basement, don't be afraid to toss your thoughts into the bucket. Check here for a more complete description.
Seattle. Sunday, May 29, 2011.
The crows brought me up this path today, teased me with their big voices, their mobbing voices. Brought me up to where the old log lies across the trail. I thought I heard the hissy whine of a young Barred Owl as I approached, but found only one adult surrounded by four yelling crows, hunkered down, back up against the trunk of a cedar tree. In spite of the surrounding uproar, this owl took the time to stare at me. Just stared, until I took the hint and moved on. The crows' voices rang behind me.
My usual perambulation brings me back down this path on my way out of the forest. Today I returned in fading green light. The hissy whines were definitely somewhere overhead. There are a lot of leaves up there now, which makes locating anything by sight a challenge. I slowed my pace, one step at a time, triangulating where I looked by the sound of the voices. There? No. There?
Fluttering in my peripheral vision - an adult owl rises up into the maple.
Hissing erupts everywhere. I catch a brief glimpse of adult and fuzzy kid making contact. Food delivery. Around them the hissing rises into whistles, whines, squeals. The adult moves away, but I've located one youngster. The second one is easy, one branch over. With the immediate anticipation of food removed, its attention is now directed at me. It bobs its head ridiculously, hisses, bobs some more. Another voice joins in and the third youngster takes shape, just above the first. It looks directly at me too, hisses, bobs its head up and down in parallel with its sibling.
Three owl kids.
I'm a bit surprised. This is in the territory of the nest I've been monitoring this season, the nest where there was an earlier report of a youngster on the ground and trying to climb back up the nest tree. In past years the brood count for this nest has been three. So. Was that fallen kid able to climb 100 vertical feet or more, hauling itself up by beak and feet to the safety of an outstretched branch? Or was this year an exceptional year where four kids fledged, way more than enough to assure that most of them would survive?
I don't know.
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