I visit an owl roost, past the end of the driveway, down on the edge of the river where the water gurgles around a small cut bank that is crowned by Russian olive and willow. The roost is a power pole I resented for a time until I deduced an owl was using it. Then that man made object became dear to me, it became the owl roost, something useful and lovely in its own way — I had a change of heart. I have never seen the owl that roosts there but I know it is frequented by an owl because I often find her feathers caught up on the sharp prickles of tumbleweeds and the blades of bunchgrass around the base of the power pole.
I collect those feathers of hers and I carry them with me further downriver as I walk with the dogs in the evenings. I hold them in my hands and absentmindedly stroke them and straighten them as I stroll. Whatever invisible things I carry with me are carefully pressed into those feathers. And I walk. I walk. Eventually I reach a bend in the river where I clamber across boulders to be above the water and I hold the feather out over the current. I do the last of my praying and thinking and then I set the feathers on the wind where they drift erratically, as feathers will, moving on invisible strings of time and air. Eventually they touch the Snake River and slide toward a set of rapids to be folded into the froth and fizz of living waters and I turn and make the long walk home in the gloaming.
Last night, in a rugged wind, I set out walking. I made my way down to the river, down to the owl roost and I looked for a feather and a prayer and there were many feathers. There were too many feathers, more feathers than prayers. I knew immediately what had happened. My owl had perished. I believe she was electrocuted while on her perch and was found on the ground, spent and burnt by high voltage, by the coyotes who made a midnight feast of her.
I gathered all the feathers I could see and walked with them pressed against my chest where the wind couldn’t rip them from my grip. I reached the boulder strand and stood out over the water, felt the mean wind punching at me, spoke my prayer and released the feathers into the gale. They flew one last time — tugged and pulled by the canyon air until they dropped into the teal blue of the river and disappeared into the madness of the whitewater.
It was a viking burial with wind and water instead of flame. I’ll miss that owl. Her feathers led me one by one into contemplation, awareness and prayer. I like to think that in the end, we set each other free.
