In Native American tradition, January moons can have many names, including the cold moon, the moon of strong cold, the moon when limbs are broken by snow, and the frozen ground moon. Because of activities outside my country home bedroom window decades ago, I think of it as the moon when great horned owls whisper of love.
Twenty years ago, I first heard a nightly serenade provided by a pair of amorous great horned owls. As I tried to fall asleep in our dark bedroom, I heard the male’s deeper hoots followed by the female’s slightly higher pitched responses as they courted in cottonwoods lining nearby Big Creek.
Listening as their romance developed night after night, I snuggled safely in the darkness of my room, hearing two owls whispering sweet nothings. I imagined them bowing and preening between their shushed sweet talk. I struggled to imagine birds better known for roles in horror movies and as harbingers of death as tender love birds, but based on this pair’s nocturnal conversations, these shared an affectionate nature. Their vocalizations continued well into February. Then evenings returned to normal quiet hours.
After several uneventful weeks, the courting dialogue assumed a distinctly family-oriented tone. Obviously, they nested nearby. I heard the female soothing fuzzy owlets with gentle noises similar to a lullaby. Her utterings put me as well as her offspring to sleep. If I managed to stay awake listening to her and the babes, their muffled but raucous noises finally shushed to late-winter silence sometime after midnight.
On occasion, Mama Owl’s youngsters fussed as much as mine had, and I heard them squabbling (the nest gets crowded as they grow). In short time, mama’s gentle gurglings calmed them.
Sometimes, I awakened in alarm when the lady of the house captured dinner right outside the window. After listening to more than one last will and testament of a rabbit the owl parents caught to feed their young, my stomach turned at the thought of meat so rare. The high-pitched screeches shot me straight out of deep sleep, alert to every outside sound. After the final death cry, I’d soon hear the excited uproar of young birds jostling to gobble dinner momma delivered fresh off the prairie.
After decades, I value those moments because they didn’t occur year-round or even every year. That short-lived courtship required close attention on my part to hear those sweet nothings before they turned to memory. Ditto for listening to the rearing of the young. In less than a dozen short weeks, that new generation of hunters fledged, and their mutterings and rustlings vanished.
Because I eavesdropped long ago on a great horned owl courtship and nesting, I listen to late night noises each January and February, hoping that once again, wooing owls might make me privy to their love songs. I pray the 20x great-grands of the owl pair I once heard start their family still raise young on the banks of Big Creek.
Karen is a retired teacher, writer, photographer, outdoors lover, and sixth-generation Kansan. After a time away, she’s glad to be home.