One cold October day just after my sixth birthday, my father
discovered this fledgling stuck in our chimney. With fishnet, he
rescued the bird and brought him into our house, much to the dismay
of my mother who had a phobia of fluttering wings.

We did not name
the little owl that lived with us
all that cold winter
on Long Nook Road

He would sleep the days away
on one of the perches
our dad had built in various corners

Come night, in silent flight
he’d ascend the narrow stairwell
to my attic room
At first sight of his piercing yellow eyes
I would pull the covers tight
    

to just below my eyes
remembering my mother’s stories
about bats in her attic as a child

There he would perch
on the foot of my bedstead
talons curled around the iron rail
sharp eyes fixed on mine
We would peer at each other
eyes on eyes, for a very long time

In the morning I’d hunt for little jack balls of fur
—remnants of mice he’d caught during the night
If none were found, we’d feed him fresh liver

Laura Johnson came to take a photo of him
for the Cape Codder
Startled by the flash, he swooped down
and scratched her
His only misdeed besides pooping on my head
His picture never made the papers

When winter’s frost had passed
and the pussy willows gave full bloom
it was time for our noble guest to fly free
Our dad handed me a rightful size of liver
instructed Hold it high
then opened the top half of the Dutch door
facing the shallow marsh on Long Nook Road

After a moment of hesitation
liver between thumb and forefinger
I stretched my arm tall above my head

From the corner perch in the hall
that little owl took flight
swooped down for the catch

I felt a gentle tug when I let go
and watched him soar
towards the marshlands