My friend J. has owls, in a manner of speaking. They reside in an enormous valley oak in front of his house. "Every evening, if you're out there," J writes, "you can hear him call his little lady owl in from the almond orchard. She softly answers him back and then flies into his secret hideaway."
Lacking owls, I like to think about J's owls. On summer evenings I even imagine I can hear the soft sounds of the owl couple murmuring secrets to each other from within the loving embrace of mother oak.