When the wind blows from the east, an otherworldly quiet settles in this little valley, a feeling of what was, before us.

I’d just tucked the horses in with their last flakes of hay and was standing outside their stalls, becoming a part of the silence, when I heard the call.

Who? Who?

I followed the question slowly across the fence line, trying to trace the inquisitor, until I caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar shape up to my right: there, atop the pepper tree by the pond, perched in survey of the breezy stillness, head swiveling toward me as I approached.

Who? Who?

A great horned owl.

I stopped, not wanting to enter his space, which had just become sacred.

How often we encroach on some ancient ritual, not served by our observation.

He was searching.

Who? Who?

And so I retreated, back to the house, where Emma was staring intently out the front door sidelight, also searching.

For me.

For me.