The owl is calling

It is a still, cold night.

From outside, there is a calling, a beckoning. It sounds human and causes me to pause.

It is puzzling.

Then I know. It is the hoot of an owl, filtering into the house, louder than the crackling fire.

I turn off the lights, creep to the window, then open the front door.

The owl is not far away, maybe in the walnut tree twenty metres from the house, maybe further.

His triumphant call echoes down the river, piercing the silence of the night. It moves over the water across the flickering shafts of light, reflected from the town on the opposite bank.

The sound is haunting. Is he or she calling for or to a mate? I don't know. Its evocative cry brings Cliona from her bed.

We listen transfixed.

I know, in the darkness, his penetrating eyes see all.