I ventured out into my front yard last night to take in the symphony warm-up.  A mid summer’s evening is a soundstage for Field Crickets, Snowy Tree Crickets, Cicadas, and a whole host of other insect crooners. Their season is just beginning, so this time of year equates to the tuning session just before the orchestra plays – the response to the Concert Master’s “A” string. By the time September rolls around the nocturnal orchestra will rise to full symphonic intensity under the direction of nature’s baton.

  It was around 9:20 in the evening and the intense heat of the day still hung heavy in the air.  The sun had fallen into the distant sea some time ago and the first hint of star shine was breaking through the darkening veil of night. A leaden gray blue sky starkly silhouetted all the tree branches against it.  Slight puffs of breeze elicited hushes sounding like waves on a beach. Between the crickets, the breeze, a distant train and the faint rumble of a Harley I detected another familiar sound. Barely audible above the hum of life there was a low whinny call wafting it’s way over the fields.  The sound was issued from far off and was so low as to seem imaginary or ghost-like.

   I held my breath to better pick it up and the whinny repeated. It started high and descended into a hollow tremulous end: “Wheeeeeeee- eeeeewwww    Wheeeeeeee- eeeeewwww.”  Though the roar of a passing car obscured the next few calls, the spirit call was still there as the auto whine dissipated down the road.  This night I was honored with the presence of a Screech Owl. He was practicing way off in the wings (every pun intended, by the way), so I decided to have a few words with him and see if he couldn’t come a bit closer. I called out his name.  Normally this is not good etiquette for orchestra goers, but acceptable if the inquiry is executed in the proper tongue.  I speak a bit of Screech Owl, so felt justified in the effort.

 Cupping my hands around my mouth I aimed a verbal imitation of the “wheeee” call in the direction of the unseen owl – ending with a long gurgled “ewwwwwwwwwww” using that flippy dingy thing in the back of my throat (the epiglottis).  I’m not entirely sure what I said, only that it basically mirrored whatever he was saying. To his “I am here, I am grand, look at me, here I stand,” my mimicry probably comes out as “Cheese is dog, swollen feet, my elephant is chow dungaree.” 

  I waited for a second, but heard no response. I looked around to detect any movement in the sky above, but only noticed a silent Shamrock spider above my head. She was busily engaged in weaving her web. Every detail of her plump body was sharply defined in silhouette. I puckered up again to call, but made sure to put a different emphasis on the end note this time –perhaps inferring a slightly different meaning.

  Again I waited. The spider continued her chores and a lightning bug flashed but there was no verbal answer. This time, a motion caught my eye as the owl streaked over the sky space and landed in the Red Pine to my right. It immediately began to call for further response. It worked.  Now it was time to carry on a decent conversation.

  Eastern Screech Owls are the smallest resident members of the owl clan in our area. They are about the size of a large can of soup (about 8 inches from beak to tail end) with a wingspan barely exceeding 18 inches.  They are very common, but as nighttime hunters are rarely seen. In daytime, they appear as variations of mottled gray or red-brown with prominent “ear” tufts and huge yellow eyes, but in dim light they are evasive shadows. Take a look here to see what they look like and to hear that mournful call (click on the three call recordings).

    Now that I had his attention, I let out a “Wheee” call to set the tone of the conversation.  From the depths of the Red Pine, the owl answered with a new set of notes sounding like a long muted trill.  Although it was issued from only 30 feet away, the call had a ventriloquist nature to it and sounded far more remote.

  We carried on for a few moments, but my responses were getting weaker as my mouth dried out.  With each call I was sounding less and less like an owl and more and more like a cheese dog with swollen feet. The owl continued to be indulgent and curious, however, and flew back over my head to the maple on my left. I saw it land, but it instantly disappeared in the shadows.

  At this point I was sure we were both doing the same thing. I rocking my head from side to side trying to get a fix on the bird and he trying to figure out the exact nature of this huge mutant ground owl below him.  His final call was clear and confident: “Wheee-eeew, Wheeee-ewwww, ew ew eweweweuuuuuuuuu….”  By this time, I had no more moisture in my mouth and I tried to answer, but it stuck in my throat.

  As if to indicate that the game was up, the Screech Owl limb-hopped to a location just over my head and paused before launching into a silent departure.  The night returned to the crickets.

  I’m guessing my heavy accent gave me away.