Eye to Eye

By Keith Michael

The wide-eyed curiosity of two Great Horned Owlets. Photo by Keith Michael.

“Track 17 is ready for passenger boarding.”

I can’t tell you where I’m headed, but I’m hoping to see some Great Horned Owlets! In April and May, I’m usually chasing migrating warblers passing through on their way north from their winter vacations in South America. However, this spring I’ve spent a fair amount of time galivanting north, south, east, and west to set my peepers on those elusive denizens of the night: owls.

What is the magnetism of owls? Maybe it’s the invisibility of their nocturnal lives, or their mournful (or scary) hooting in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s their nearly silent flight or how downright difficult it is to actually see them at any time. Perhaps it’s their plush toy roundness. Frankly, though, I think what sums up owls’ allure is their piercing, forward-facing eyes.

Most birds’ eyes are on the sides of their heads. Being lower on the food chain, this configuration gives birds nearly 360-degree vision to help them evade becoming a meal. True, raptors’ and other hunting birds’ eyes have migrated more toward the fronts of their heads. Binocular vision helps them focus on snaring dinner. But an owl’s eyes face directly forward like ours. But unlike ours, their eyes are much larger, are tubes, not globes, and don’t move in their sockets. To look to the side, an owl has to swivel its head. You can’t get a “side-eye” from an owl. This means that their gaze looks hauntingly right at you, and unnervingly, seemingly right through you. When an owl looks at you, you seem to have their full attention. Our self-centeredness loves that.

Just in the past several weeks I’ve had the good fortune, after walking a goodly number of miles, of seeing 13 Great Horned Owls, three Eastern Screech Owls, and two Barn Owls. I’ve gone out looking for so many more—unsuccessfully. Confession: my obsession has led me to New Jersey, Long Island, Westchester, and all five boroughs. NJ Transit, the LIRR, Metro-North, and the MTA are my friends. Of course, I’m always hoping to happen upon an owl in the West Village, but after two decades of searching, my neighborhood list remains owl-less. According to the ethics of responsible birding, the locations of daytime owl roosts are to be kept secret so that owls are not disturbed while they’re trying to catch some shut-eye. However, people are notoriously inept at keeping secrets, so the word does trickle out.

My personal prize is watching an owl nest with owlets. For me, owlets are in the upper echelon of competitive cuteness along with penguins, corgi puppies, and Piping Plover chicks. Owlets are fluffy, have a surfeit of both feist and awkwardness, are both helpless and resilient, and they have huge eyes. Great Horned Owls, our largest local owls, build or refurbish stick nests high in trees, redecorate large tree cavities or broken off trunks, or occasionally, squat in man-made structures. Diminutive Screech Owls repurpose old woodpecker holes or other tree cavities. The monkey-faced Barn Owls have developed a proclivity for man-made housing; barns suit them perfectly due to their proximity to self-plenishing larders.

An owl nest in the wild is my favorite. Frequently, an NYC-environs nest becomes known and going there is like jostling for runway seating during Fashion Week. One intimidating camera rig after another elbows in for the prime real estate with the twig-free view. But recently, I’ve had the unprecedented luxury (for me) of having had not just one or two, but three Great Horned Owl nests all to myself. I could stay put, or wander around looking for a different angle—all at a respectful distance, of course—or ramble for other birds while waiting for something to “happen” in the nest. Watching a toddler sleeping has, perhaps, limited appeal, but one never knows what to expect when observing owlets on the verge of fledging. Yes, they might conk out into a nap, but there also might be a wrestling match with their sibling in a cavity getting smaller by the hour. Stretching those new-fangled wings takes dexterity but, more likely than not, it’s a pageant of adorable clumsiness. Mom or Dad might suddenly drop in with a freshly caught snack or leftover from yesterday. Oh, and for additional entertainment, there’s always the search for Mom or Dad themselves in a nearby tree—keeping watch if protective interference is needed, but really, just trying to snooze in preparation for the long night ahead of “bringing home the bacon” to this clamorous gang.

By the time you read this, the young’uns I’ve been watching will likely have left their nests. Don’t worry. It will be several months before they’re completely on their own. Over time, Mom and Dad will be “fresh-directing” less and less, forcing the kids to practice catching free range meals on their own.

I do hope that all goes well for them and that I’ll be able to see them again next season.