Over the top a bit, but I needed to get things going as apparently once a week so quickly has become once a month. To more effort!!! Cheers.
Whooo whooo whoooo, soft and gently whispered across a morning wake not that long ago. The call of a mysterious bird stood out amongst the plops and bangs of the urban awakening.
This subtle vibrancy that had wandered into my morning mood, sparked a curiosity my mind. What creature had spilled this whooting cry into my day, dripping off of the chirps and buzzes just out our bedroom window. I wanted to know what bird had squeezed a owlish whoot into the sun shining grips of the day. For many days, I assumed that the sound was just that, the lost moans of a youthful owl. In the spirit of telling stories, I assumed that a young owl had planted himself not far from my window, confused or too anxious to fall asleep. I imagined that he sat perched high upon telephone pole and warned the world of his unveiled terror or more likely fearfully whooting away his own fears of the day’s brightness and chaos. No longer hidden by the night’s dark cover, certainly, he could not have been so intimidating to the sleeping moles and mice hiding deep in the day time holes. Thus, after my mug had been filled with the perfect mixture of coffee and honey I moved to the balcony to search out this base song. However, my inquiry was of little resolve and I was left only with the ringing resonance of this birds distant message.
For weeks, I continued this ritual. In the morning, I would scan the horizon as I sipped on my coffee, determined to find this enigma amongst the morning chatters of song birds, traffic and the rising temperature. As the time passed, the joyful investigatory morning ritual slowly transformed to a nagging torture. With the first breaths of meeting the day, before the creep of sunlight had bore through the curtains, I would hear that whoo whoo whoo of my omnipresent imaginary owl. Over time, I began to notice that the my feathered friend had followed me far and away. Taking breaks at work I would hear the coo of an epidemic of lost youthful owls, bouncing the day with strange and eerie call. In the distance as I walked to my car, several blocks away on my lunch time sun light absorb. As the days passed, the sound had left its place in the classification of soothing and curiously tonal hmm. From haunting and sad it quickly became and annoyance. Like the tell tale heart of Poe, it had become overwhelming. The whoo whoo whoo pierce the air, flooding atop the crash and bang of trash trucks and sirens. Conversations would be left hanging as my attention was obsessive and single minded. Like a jealous boyfriend, I fumed with irrationality at the mere existence of this flighty beast. A single note of this demonic avian hum would send anxious needles up my spine, pinching with a bitter cold slashes.
Quite obviously, this being had substantially interfered with my life’s existence. He had whittled away the layers of my soul with a whoo whoo and a whoo. Determined to rid my sanity of this plaguing song, I began researching. I spent hours listening to the songs of Florida’s great winged fellows. Over and over I listened to calls of owls and pigeons and sparrows and water fowl. I needed to know the face and the composition of my dreadful terrorizer. In my studies, I continuously skipped over the innocence the beamed from the word “dove.” I mean come on, a dove is the symbol of peace. Noah’s great hope was manifest and joyously presented in the mouth of a white dove. Never could such an angelic creature be the dismal source of misery’s soundtrack. But there it was, peering up at me time and time again. The mourning dove, its soft, fat gray body was unassuming and almost pigeon ish but without all the sickening hunger for leftovers. I pressed play, and there it was, a canned reel of my tortuous whoot.
In a moment I was swooned with disappointment, relief and sorrow. I had always kept this image of a majestic owl wandering the day lit streets of Miami with an a noble and disheveled manner. Sadly, my hopes of finding the proliferation of these woodsy owls in urban transformation had been dashed away. My pains seemed wasted and trite. Such an upheaval of personal attention and thought had been revealed for the minuscule and mundane that it really was. I imagine it was likely how Dorothy felt when she finally met the Wizard. Smacked head on with mediocrity in glorious clothing. It made me want to just kick that plump, beady eyed ball of feathers in a calm but swift gesture of bestial dominance. I had placed this fierce bird on par with Poe’s Raven, looming and undeniably haunting. Alas I had come to find that my mysterious raven, who’s who who who was now so much less the “Nevermore” was quite simple a dud, a second hand character actor, horribly unconvincing in costume or demeanor. It was frustrating that his poor attempts to be forever mourning did not justified any of the personal uproar. Its appearance, its call, its squatty manner bring about visions of losing your car at the mall. Quite sadly, life, it turns out, was not as scary as I had imagined it to be.