It was eleven o'clock and Asher, my fourteen-year-old son, called my husband Shawn and me into his room.
"I'm hearing some rad bird activity outside," he said.
We all looked at each other quizzically and strained our necks toward his window, willing ourselves to hear some "rad bird activity."
My still warm bed was beckoning me back, so I dared my men to go outside and discover the mystery, and adding, with a dash of playfulness, "Maybe you will see an owl", moseyed back to bed.
Within moments my husband yelled upstairs, "Kim, come down here, quick!"
Clad in my nightgown I quickly stepped into Asher's clunky boots and, as gingerly as one can rush in clunky boots, headed out to the back door of the garage where Asher was waiting.
"Now look up high in the shag-bark hickory," said Shawn in a hushed voice.
With our breath marking the night air we craned our necks.
"He's gone," Shawn said.
I missed it. I knew going to bed was a mistake.
Asher had first heard the hoots and had been the one to spot the beauty high up in a tree. I'm proud of him for having ears to hear the unusual, for having the heart to invite us into the mystery, and for having eyes to discern where the elusive bird might be.
Tolkien wrote "It's a dangerous business going out your door…there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."I missed being swept off my feet to a dance under winter's star-pocked sky. I missed the silhouette of a majestic bird residing high over the white-blanketed earth. I missed the hushed "Look Dad! There it is!" of my son.
I chose my bed over going out my door last night.
My friends, your beds will always be there. Don't miss the adventure. It might be a real hoot!
No comments:
Post a Comment