A Mild Night

A Mild Night

The screech from an owl woke Henry, but not in a frightening way, he knew immediately what it was and imagined it, wide-eyed, grey and small, sitting in a treetop surveying its territory for prey. They’re known as German Owls, but correctly they are inauspiciously titled Little Owl.  It’s unusual to see them except around autumn when they sit on the power wires that thread alongside our country roads. The wire-sitters are likely fledglings, their lack of experience, the reason they dice with death to feed on road kill. So often it’s those young’uns that themselves become roadkill. The screech that woke Henry came from an adult.

A full moon shone brightly through the bedroom window and although, or perhaps because, it was just past 2:00am he slid quietly out of bed to have a look around. It’s not Henry’s habit to wander around during the night, but he’s done his share. As a lad helping his father deliver milk before biking off to school. Or in later life, keeping a watch on fires in and around the forest usually after a controlled burn-off or a breakaway. And of course there were those spotlighting episodes, following the beam, peering for the reflection of the eyeballs of forest-damaging herbivores. And yes, chasing off the looney, illegal spotlighting night hunters, who didn’t only shoot at game – tractors and road signs were too often in their sights!

This night was unusual because it was quite mild. Usually the only time the nights are warm is when there is nor’westerly weather but those times it’s windy. This night the air was still. A huge cheesy disc bathed everything in its pale light, which allowed Henry to spot the four rabbits feeding on the lawn, one of them paused to scratch, before a warning thump of another’s foot sent them scurrying for the shrubbery. He felt them watching him from their haven as he walked towards the Paulownia tree where he expected the owl to be perched.

The owl had long-since flown off, perhaps after some quarry, hopefully a mouse. Mice try to come indoors and into the sheds during autumn, so he made a mental note to put out more bait. There was cooing, a wood pigeon woken by Henry’s footfall wasn’t alarmed but was timidly hoping for a reply. Joining the conversation he cooed in reply, but the bird was having none of his amateur impigeonation and with a flurry of her wings, she sought safety on a higher branch. Even in the moon-shadow Henry could see well and he playfully kicked at the fallen Norway maple leaves, scattering them and hearing their clatter as they settled in the stillness of the night. In a nearby paddock a lamb bleated for its mother and was immediately given a comforting reply as they settled down again to sleep or chew their cuds.

Just a few more steps took him to where he could hear the cackling of the river below, peering over the bank he could plainly see ripples that reflected moonlight. He could see the dark shapes of paradise ducks, the glowing white heads only the males have. They constantly honked, bickering, arguing over the most comfortable stones to lie upon, or perhaps giving reassurance of safety to a mate. The pied stilt woken by some movement or sound, screeched in protest, these are the birds that often fly in at eyelevel warning Henry as he approaches her nest or chicks. This time she was just moving away from those pesky, noisy ducks.

Turning away from the bank, Henry saw that two of the rabbits had left their cover, nervously venturing to munch on the short grass, looking up after each nibble, moving their ears like antennae searching for a signal. Looking skywards, the Southern Cross was clearly visible in the cloudless sky but the moon cast too much light, drowning out most of the smaller stars, while others hung there like little bulbs, hopefully sharing their brightness. Nevertheless as always he scanned the sky for satellites, they say one passes over every seven minutes, but he sees them only occasionally. He dipped out again.

Henry was content with the peace of that still mild night. He could have spent more time out there, but he had plans for the next day and to make them happen, he needed sleep. As he lay in his bed, still euphoric from his stroll in the moonlight, he remembered that the day had been Good Friday. There was always a full moon close to Good Friday. Those craters that make up a mythical face have watched over Earth since time began, a witness to everything, but the moon has no memory, empathy or judgement will, it is just hangs up there guiding the tides and influencing the weather. Spiritual for many.

When you think about it, those unseeing eyes have seen a lot!