by cheri sabraw
Last week on a day sure to bring out the rattlesnakes, Irv arrived with the owl box packed in his truck.
Irv brought the box, the supplies, and the laughs.
“You can put your shovel away, Irv. The Judge already dug the hole,” I volunteered.
The audience rested along the fence in a repose, exhausted from the cruel and usual punishment.
The owl box, for its part, feigned weight and awkwardness, hitching a ride on the Gator instead of being carried like the stationing of the cross.
The owl box stands now in the orchard, waiting for a pair of barn owls to cuddle up inside and get busy producing heirs.
Meanwhile, while we wait, the voles and gophers are tearing up our lawn and plowing through the orchard in defiance.
Soon they will seek asylum from the Ranchovian Embassy but none will be forthcoming because they are traitors to the cause: a bountiful harvest next November.
For his part, Irv the Impressionist and maker of ecological housing, signed his name, took a long slug of ice water, and drove away.
He reminded me to be patient.
Owls usually shack up in January.
When an owl pair arrives, I will show you all.