p e n c h a n t

Artist sharpens pencil, draws blank

Weed-eater caught inhaling

Survivor found on islets of Langerhans

For sale: space station (fixer-upper)

Coffee table can’t stand still

Hangnail files for separation

Elephant does Watusi

Mr Potato Head drowns in Greece

Literary news: Frankenstein seen entering second-hand store

Archives: Oscar Mayer speaks frankly to press

And the Good News Award goes to: Beatnik gets hip operation

There are owls where I live. You can hear them at night, calling and chuckling among themselves. Some nights they sound like monkeys.

Once in a great while you hear them at day.

I was out in the garden a few weeks ago, poking around, when I heard one call. Just once. I can’t find the right mix of letters to describe the call besides the standard, “Whoooo.” But it was more fluff and purr than that. A sigh of contentment or resignation—I couldn’t tell which. I scanned the trees surrounding me. I looked and looked, wandered here and there. No owl.

Later, as I was outside on the deck, I saw it (him? her? My Audubon guide doesn’t give a distinction. I’ll say him). About a 100 feet off and 50 feet up, in a long-needle pine, in the sun. I got my field glasses out and zoomed in. He was looking my way, nonchalant. He yawned, blinked one eye, took a nap.

I began to call him, though feeble the call was. “Whoo, woo, hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo-o-o-o.” He opened an eye, closed it again. I kept calling. He took more naps. I thought it was unusual he was out sunning himself.

He suddenly dropped, straight out of sight, to catch a meal, I thought. But no: he swooped right in, just 25 feet away, to land in the old apple tree. He stayed for over two hours. I invited the 10-year-old neighbor boy to come see. I took pictures. I was able to get so close I could have touched him. We’re having the woods thinned near the pond, and his home might have been affected. I talked to him, soothingly, and left him sleeping in the apple tree and roamed the wooded area, but found no fallen hollow trees or any other signs of owl lodgings.

When I returned, at dusk, he was gone.

-

Here he is. See also my other owl encounter, here.
For a literary, lyrical encounter, see the wonderful Owl Moon by Jane Yolen,
illustrated by John Schoenherr.

(I’m not. But they are fun.)

I wrote a haiku
That was more like an “atchoo!”
(Hand me some Kleenex.)

Haikus are coo-coo
They’re not exactly poems
But what is the diff?

First, five syllables
Then it’s seven syllables
Then it’s five again

Reading the first line in a book is like meeting someone for the first time, or opening a birthday gift. There’s anticipation, a moving forward into something new and unknown. The first line should read like poetry, worded carefully, perfectly. It’s important to make the right first impression. The first line should be a promise to the reader that the book is worth the read.

To begin this series I’ve chosen the first line from one of my favorite books. It accomplishes so much with so little. It gives you the setting, establishes the mood, introduces the character, and even presents the plot. All with 12 simple words. It is exquisite.

The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone.

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle