Owls

The Christmas tradition that is as uncelebrated as brussel sprouts is the start of the twooing season for Tawny Owls, or so it seems. Emerging scullery bound at 3am with a roll of wet bedding into a brilliant cold night, I heard one start up loud and indignant a few feet away. It was disinclined to leave or to quit its noise until I re-emerged from the scullery doorway and tried to spot it in the brilliance of Jupiter's light. It must have been on a branch of the ash tree above my head, or possibly on the roof of the woodshed, but as quickly as it had started, it's call moved to a tree farther away, and then presently it was gone, as if the call had come without a bird, like the smile on a Cheshire cat.