A parliament of Great Horned Owls lives in the trees by my bedroom door.
Deep into the dark, while the busyness of day suspends itself in an obedient nap, the owls begin their monosyllabic songs.
Hoot, hoot, they call, in a soothing rhythm.
Soothing to me as I try to rest from the elbows and shoves of the day.
Anything but soothing to the mice, rats, moles, gophers, and squirrels who take to their burrows at the sound of the hoot.
I press my body deeper into the mattress and try to rest.
The comforting flap through the redwoods, from one branch to another, reminds me that life and death are a continuum, day and night.
Serrated remiges on the enormous wing-span enable air flow and quiet, much to the dismay of the mouse.
And in a perfect match of guest and host, my owls say Whom, Whom instead of Who, Who.