Barn Owl

Eleven o’clock at night, he sat there on straw, with his back against the timber boards which surrounded him and sealed the wooden structure.

It had been empty for years now, goodness knows how many, but the smell of livestock and the timber remained, and if he closed his eyes, it would only be the quiet and stillness that gave away the passing of time.

It was a comforting place, and though on his journey he had only a limited time in this hometown of his, he returned to this spot every night and sat there, spasmodically rolling a cigarette and drinking a large beer, which kept its chill just long enough in the cool summer night.

One visit might have been enough, he was not the type to dwell in a place, to relax and stay put. He moved. He was restless. But it was on his first night here, after pitching his tent behind the wooden barn, out of sight from the small country lane which passed some hundred meters away, that he had made a discovery, perched upon a rafter.

It was all the more surprising when assessing the integrity of the building, and the craftsmanship his father had laid into its foundations and structure, for there were no holes visible in the roof or sides, only the doorless entry which allowed the world in, or out.

It was an owl. A barn owl. Sat there in a corner of the low ceiling, unblinking, still, returning his gaze.

There was nothing else to do. A hand-cranked torch which required too much effort to get much reading done. A broken cell phone. Just the quasi darkness, through which the moon illuminated from beyond the open entry way, enough to see the layout, and this creature.

He watched the animal for three nights. The golden hour of dusk lingered while he once again raised his tent, after having lowered it at dawn to keep the peace. And when the dark blue had swept across the sky and raised with it a veil of brilliant shining stars set into darkness, he ventured into the barn and sat.

The beast was there, this unbelievable thing he saw. As if something like it could ever exist.

It turned its head and though he could not see in detail, he imagined the satin collar feathers gently overlapping and brushing each other aside as its gaze was directed elsewhere.

The owl would not leave its post while he sat.

Pushing himself up against the timber, he collected the cigarette butts he had stamped out and placed in a small heap to his side, and exited the barn. He stopped, every night, just briefly outside, and gazed at the stars, sometimes appearing behind thin layers of cloud, but always visible.

And before the fear of expanse and unknown could enter him, and the weight of all the cosmic mystery could bear heavy, he lowered his head and turned the corner to his tent.

It took him a long time to fall asleep still, as thoughts came to him and he wondered about everything there is, and was, and will be. As he wondered about nothingness.

And each night he was here, the heavy gushing of the owl’s wings could be heard as it made its way out into the night. Perhaps into the trees which thickly lined the banks of the small streams which lay close, running parallel to the country lanes, where as a boy he had spent summer nights around a campfire, while his father cooled beer in the water of the creek, and fireflies loved in bio-luminescence.