7 x 5 inches
India ink on Bristol board
“Did you hear that?”
“An owl,” says the wife. “On the roof.”
It’s 3am in the morning, and the bedroom is black as a pool of ink. Silence; then a hoot startles them both.
The husband rolls onto his side. “Okay, yeah. Owl.”
Rich and sonorous, the hoots continue. An indeterminate amount of minutes — or hours — pass by in that strange, liminal space between Asleep and Awake.
“There! It’s another one.”
“It must be another one, answering back. There’s a different pitch, a higher one. Wow, it sure has a lot to say!”
“Must be the female of the pair.”
The wife snorts in the dark. By the time she works out a clever comeback, her mate is enviously insensible.
Hoot….one one thousand…hoot……two one thousand….
In her mind’s eye, the two owls are swooping over an endless sheep fence in feathered silence until she, too, drifts into dreams.