Moo-cows, hoot owls

We live in what used to be the country.

Since 1995, our neck of the woods – and it was in fact mostly woods and farm fields back then – is being swallowed up by the sprawl of suburbia.

There are two Targets now, less than two miles away. The friendly four-way stops are gone, replaced by civilized stoplights. The McDonald’s opened just six months ago, depressing and comforty all at once.

But all of this doesn’t bother me so much because there are still moo-cows at the farm across the street; you can hear them mooing on warm summer mornings. On really good days, blue herons wade through the pond behind our house. On really bad nights, coyotes scream from the few remaining cornfields nearby.

And there are hoot owls.
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Why are they called moo-cows and hoot owls?

There are no oink-pigs or bark-dogs.

And what if all of us put what we do in front of who we are?

What would you be?
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This morning I woke up dark-early to that familiar h-h-HOO hoo HOOooo.

We’ve known since November that an owl is nesting nearby.

When he’s on the chimney it’s so loud it sounds like he’s sitting next to me on the couch. Stand in the back yard and you can hear him hoo after 10 almost every night.

But this morning I heard something new with the hoo-ing.

A small, soft hoo. Echoing the huge, loud hoo.

Baby hoots. Owlets on the roof.

Cool.
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I am listening to: Streetcorner Symphony – Rob Thomas
I am reading: My guy Neil
And I am: A Bitch-Hed (lately)