I used to walk on dirt roads so early in the morning I needed a headlamp to light the way. I grew to love this time of day—out before the sun was up and before the world awoke. The only light was the moon, when it was out at all.
It was dark, quiet, and still. Not a soul but me.
And Lizzie. The only other solo walker out before dawn, bundled except for her eyes in winter, and always with a headlamp around her forehead, a bobbing light coming towards me from a distance.
Eventually, we began to chat as we passed, going in opposite directions. She knew all the community gossip—who was getting divorced and which spouse kept the house; what the forecast was for heat, frost, or rain and what she had to do to protect her plants; and the names of all the other walkers and their dogs.
Initially, she was surprised by me because she thought she was the only soul who walked that early. One time she said, “Just me and the owls out this early.”
Out with the owls.
After that conversation, I started to notice the owls. They had always been there, but you have to notice them to see them. I began to look for the owls.
That early in the morning, it wasn’t uncommon to hear one pack of howling coyotes calling to another pack; to watch a herd of javelina on the move; to see tarantulas crawling or hawks perched on top of saguaros; or to find trails left by snakes that had slithered through the dirt to cross the road. The desert is an active place at night, an entire eco system coming alive. Most desert critters steer clear of humans, especially the ones with dogs.
But not the owls. Perched high above, in trees or on telephone lines, they watched. They would hoot, but it sounded more like cooing. I never knew whether they were calling to each other because it made them feel less alone, whether they were warning each other about my approach, or whether they were talking to me.
Their sounds became comforting. And what was true of Lizzie became true of me too: just me, out with the owls.
I wonder if Lizzie tells my story now. Eventually, I became the divorcee who left the neighborhood.
She was one of the first people I told about the divorce. The morning after the decision had been made, I went walking. Early still, but it was summer. It was light. So she could see me crying. I opened up and talked about what I’d carefully concealed.
Then I was gone. And, once again, it was just Lizzie, out with the owls.
Now the roads I walk on aren’t all dirt, and I encounter a mix of traffic and other early walkers. Still early. Still dark. Just less still.
But there are owls here too.
I didn’t notice them until I walked with my sister. She taught me to look up because you never know when you might see an owl perched nearby, swiveling its head to watch you pass.
I may have passed this one a dozen times. But you don’t see something you’re not looking for.
The owls are still perched high above, on the telephone lines; sometimes you can see them, sometimes you can only hear them. And only if you’re listening.
I still walk with the owls. I’ve met a new friend, Laura. Laura too knows all the other walkers and the names of their dogs. And now Laura knows me. She knows my name and the names of my dogs.
I may move again one day. And leave these owls, and Laura, behind.
But until then, if you look for me dark and early, you will find me out with the owls.