The Devotion of Momma Wonky
The April night air of the Big Sky country is filled
with an assortment of nature’s callings.
The Lonely Loon beckons with a haunting wail,
Mourning doves coo,
Canadian geese honk,
And the Ring-neck Pheasants squawk.
Off in the distance, Mr. Hootie Calls: Wha-hoo, hoo-hoo.
Nearby, Momma Wonky Answers: Hoo-hoo-wha-hoo, hoo-hoo.
These are the sounds of mated, Great Horned Owls.
Meanwhile, left alone, while their providers provide,
Three white, balls of fluffy fur, fidget in their inclined nest.
One owlet, with eyes wide open, elongates his neck,
Bobs and weaves his head up, down, and around,
Seemingly in rhythm to the musical
beat of the cadenced calls of the wild.
Another stands and stretches her legs,
Flaps and flight tests her two-week old, muffled wings.
She leans precariously at the edge of her
Carefully crafted, confined home of sticks,
Almost toppling over from her high perch.
The smallest of the trio finds her pile place,
And rests her contented head atop her sibling,
Peacefully awaiting the return of mom and dad
With their tasteful morsels of fresh meat.
Momma silently arrives with a vole,
secured and dangling from her beak.
Mrs. Wonky had left the nest at sunset,
Which she has done faithfully for prior nights.
She is often prodded away from her
Daycare duties by a distant Mr. Hootie call,
Urging her to come begin the nightly hunt.
With a throaty sound pulsating as
The opening movement to her sonata,
She answers back, her mouth puckered,
As her white banded neck inflates,
And undulates with a raspy hoot back,
To her princely partner for the night.
Now, one-half hour later,
The feeding frenzy begins, with Momma,
Gazing down attentively at her nestlings with her
characteristic, chronically dilated, right pupil.
She carefully rips her prey apart and apportions it
among her triplets, now of 14, 16, and 18 days of age.
Ten minutes after her arrival,
She will once again leave for the hunt,
One of several runs throughout the night,
Staying in place only after her final run,
just prior to sunrise.
A sudden cold snap descends
upon and grips the land.
Light snow begins at dawn
and blankets the evergreens.
Momma spreads her wings,
Politely sits over and covers her tightly
bundled, puff pile of chicks.
She holds this protection throughout,
Until, as twilight arrives, she carefully
Arises, tiptoes over her progeny,
then with a short hop off to a supportive branch,
Begins takeoff for her first nightly hunt.
With readings now in the teens,
she returns quickly, feeds her little ones,
and resumes her warm blanket protection of them.
Alas! Hoo, Hoo arrives shortly to the rescue?
But Mr. Hootie, with a deceased Mr. Vole!
A quick hand-off is made to the Mrs.,
And stealthily he adjourns back into the darkness.
Mr. Vole is now consumed quite whole,
gulped down head-first with control,
by a hungry young one who sat,
As their growing size begat,
A most crowded nest room stroll.
Three weeks have passed since,
The last of the three chicks emerged.
They have bulked up with bulging stomachs,
Their body in white down,
Now laced with mottled brown,
With wings tipped in midnight black.
Characteristic “ear tufts” sprout like
Blooming crocuses, in the vernal, valley breeze.
The napping nestlings now spend their
days sharing snacks with Mom,
Punctuated with morning yawns
And hot afternoon panting,
With preening sessions in between.
They stretch their bodies from head to talon,
While “Wingersizing” their flight-feathers of propulsion.
Momma's imprinting on her proteges is strong,
For the kids practice triangulation of prey with head
bobs on nearby geese as the honkers saunter about,
Dreaming, someday, that they too shall hunt.
Capable of self-feeding in gulps,
The young ones know to trust a
Steady delivery of delicious voles.
Long into the early evening hours,
They sit alert, fixed at attention,
peering into the night,
with those big, bright, amber eyes.
On the lookout, for any signs
of Momma’s or Papa’s arrival,
including listening for any “home-soon” hooting.
They stir with anticipation when Mom strolls
Through her entranceway, bountiful prey in hand.
While Pop, pops in, makes his delivery, turns,
And takes off, back into the pitch-black hunting grounds.
Like the owls, Bitterroot Salish once hunted this valley,
led by Chief Charlot, or “Claw of the Little Grizzly”.
To these Native Americans, the horned owl
was a sacred and respected ceremonial spirit,
Worthy of an evening “Owl Dance”.
The Mr. and Mrs. danced each night away with
carefully choreographed evening hunts,
counted by Momma to insure that each
chick is handed their fair share of whole voles.
As darkness advances, dropped-off,
Unconsumed voles in the nest
Are indications of leftovers,
Pleasing Momma that stomachs are full,
And are stored away in the Owlet Pantry.
One windy and rainy spring night reigns supreme,
In the tales of raptor folklore when the industrious
Wonky departed her nest precisely at sunset,
And two hours later the paired couple
Had delivered a dozen voles to the homestead!
A more contented trio of fluff balls
could not be found that slept as dry and
soundly as they, on that stormy valley evening.
The owlets have rapidly matured,
With Momma taking perch breaks aside the nest.
Like a synchronized swim team, when Wonky
Faces front towards the rising sun, three heads face front.
When afternoon approaches, Wonky turns back,
Into the sun's glow, the owlets in unison follow suit.
Two score and two days have elapsed since
the youngest one took her first breath.
Oh, but what courage she now has!
She puffs up her body, spreads her wings,
And gives the eagle eye to flying intruders
As they dare invade too closely to her beloved nest!
Now in these passing days and nights,
The two oldest gain confidence to explore
Outside the confines of their comfort zone.
They hop to nearby branches of their home tree,
With the elder even flap-hopping to an adjacent tree,
Returning and greeted with celebratory
Kisses from his excited siblings!
Momma supplies a new smorgasbord of meat:
Squirrel, snake, and fresh gosling.
Their girth has grown, and they stand tall,
Ready to begin their next big adventure.
Who can forget that tempestuous windstorm,
That blew in with such ferocity,
Only three days after brood delivery?
Swaying the trunk of their nest-supporting tree,
Violently, back and forth, to and fro,
Hootie, gripping on for dear life,
Momma, shielding her newborn.
What force is it that drives this mother of
Three to be so protective, resourceful,
Sacrificial, impartial, devoted, and tender?
How does a bird of prey know to preserve
Its own species through unrelenting care
of those so dependent on her for their survival?
Nestled in this valley of steep mountain ranges,
The ebb and flow of life goes on,
unfettered in the protected Wildlife Refuge,
Ostensibly isolated, from the fast-paced, civilized world.
As the twilight fades into dusk,
A high altitude, Seattle-bound jet cruises,
And as its silver skin glimmers above the clouds,
Its engine roars and the rush of air along its wings
swoosh with a crescendo echo of invasive sound.
Truck tires rumble along Highway 93 and utter
their steady drone of rolling and tumbling treads.
As the sounds of man commingle with wildlife calls,
Something troubling enters the consciousness.
Can the calls of man and calls of nature ever truly coexist,
Without the destruction of the natural environment
And the unraveling of the web of life?
The answer my friends, lies within ourselves.
For over the many millennium, archaeological digs
show that almost every species,
that ever existed,
is now Extinct.
Extinction is the norm, survival the exception.
Where Our Loyalties need to lie is clear.
Like the Devoted Wonky,
Protect and Love Mother Earth
and all its Life Forms,
or Perish.
At Sunset, Wonky is always ready.
At Sunrise, will Man be ready to
Even Witness the next Sunset?
__________________________________________________________________________
*Inspired by the Great Horned Owl nest adjacent to the Ninepipe National Wildlife Refuge,
near Charlo, Montana, USA of March-May, 2020. Thank you, Owl Research Institute.*
“[The whiteman] has filled graves with our bones...His course is destruction. He spoils
what the Spirit who gave us this country made beautiful and clean...You know that he
comes as long as he lives, and takes more and more, and dirties what he leaves”.
- Chief Charlot, 1876 Speech, (Chief Charlot Artwork below by Edgar S. Paxson).
D W Orr
Environmentalist, Weimaraner/Dachshund Companion, Photographer, and Poet-Provocateur
Harford County, Maryland,
Here, where it all began, 251 years ago, in the USA
May 9, 2020
May 11, 2020 Update: All three owlets are now branching to pine trees adjacent to their nest tree. Two returned home for the day, but the whereabouts of one is uncertain at the moment. Wonky has brought a coot into the nest for owlet feasting. Near sundown, the oldest owlet at 49 days, flew a good distance from one tree to another tree! A verified fledgling! A new illustration of his sequenced maiden flight is shown below, next to last.
May 12, 2020 Update: The youngest owlet occupies the nest alone; to us humans, this is somewhat sad to witness. The other two are out and about, roosting together nearby in adjacent trees, with occasional flight practicing. Their parents will continue to bring them prey, wherever they are, located through begging calls from the chicks.
May 13, 2020 Update: After spending most of the day perched in one spot and pondering her fate, the youngest owlet started to fidget amongst the branches of her nest tree. Then suddenly, she leaped away from the tree and plunged/flew downward to freedom! As someone else who witnessed the moment and so aptly described, "off the spring board into the pool of this great big world". The sun will set in an hour and a half, and our little one will now begin a new era with her two siblings, having taken the bold first step toward independence at age 47 days. That primordial drive is just too strong, an irresistible force that pulls all creatures and man forward to their destiny. Goodbye my three amigos, it has been a pleasure watching you grow up and being nourished and guided by your devoted Momma. May you soar freely with the wind beneath your wings. May your lives be fruitful and long lived - to a grand old age of 30 some years, at which time Mother Earth will have reached a point where its fate, and that of all mankind, and our wonderful creatures, will be more clearly known.
May 20, 2020 Update: All five members of the Wonky family are doing well, with the three owlets exploring near the nest tree. They are practicing flying and climbing. The two youngest are hanging together perched on a nearby tree. Their plumage is a more noticeable brown in color, and the oldest is taking on the appearance of an adult GHO. The parents continue bringing prey to wherever the owlets may be found.
April 17, 2022 Update: Wonky and Hootie were once again the proud parents of three owlets born during the first week of April, 2022 (#1 on 4/1/22, #2 on 4/3/22, #3 on 4/6/22) in Charlo, Montana, USA. Congratulations to our devoted couple!
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The Poet-Provocateur
”The Man who sees well beyond the day-to-day Bullshit”