Strangeness

Weird. In winter, at night, I pee in a large plastic coffee can, and then the first time I pee in the morning I throw it out and rinse the can. I was standing at the back door, putting on my jacket, and there was a owl, puffed up like a feathered football, still as a statue, with head tucked, neckless, into the top of it's body, perched on a low branch of a Sassafras not fifteen feet away. At one in the afternoon it's still there. Every time I get up I go over and watch it for five or ten minutes. I've never studied an owl before. I've seen a great many of them, but never one for this long. In Florida, fishing the tributaries of the St. Johns River, we'd see them, under the tree canopy, on the lowest branch, hyper-alert, pivoting heads, hunting from a tree stand. In Colorado they were prey to eagles. We had a resident owl, that I never saw, on the Vineyard, that drove me crazy at night, endlessly hooting. One time, with the girls, I think we were in upstate New York, we'd exited some highway somewhere for gas or food, and there was a huge dead owl in the road. I stopped to pull it off and took a couple of feathers before I cut it open for the predators. They're on the wall, with several other feathers from specific birds I remember. My walls are ridiculous. I post things there, to remind me of moments I would otherwise forget. Late afternoon, I have the house warm enough to shave and wash my hair. Emmylou Harris, singing a duet with someone, then I have to turn off the radio because I want the silence. Sinking deep into cold. The walk down tomorrow will require care. A few days ago, when the temps were briefly above freezing, some water formed, turned to ice, and then it snowed. The snow has crusted over, a few inches thick, and under that a layer of ice, the footing is treacherous. You have to take small steps and punch down with the crampons, using that third leg as a crutch, to prevent falling; I'm sure the Jeep is buried in snow and ice, still, I will get to town tomorrow, probably late, because I need some things, and I'll hike back up the hill, with a modest pack, tomorrow evening. It's what we do, not a big deal, living on the fringe. I have an alternate ego, to whom I occasionally ask questions, you might call it an internal dialogue, but I'll be puttering about and I'll say something out loud, ask a question. What? And I answer myself, though not with a prepared script. I'm really good off the cuff.