How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [86]
“It’s just beautiful,” Rainy said, removing her sunglasses, and she was right.
Now the kids say they have found the hole where an owl lives. With the help of three stones resting against each other to form a stair, each child takes a turn looking into an opened notch in the trunk of a gnarled oak tree.
Dougy peers into the hole, which is the size of a watermelon, and quickly jumps down. “He’s in there!” His voice sounds like steam from a teakettle.
“Duh!” Bubba cries. “We told you. We don’t lie.”
“What does he look like?” asks Joy, who is still too fearful to stand on the rocks and have a turn.
Bubba makes scary sounds, and Bobby jabs Joy on her arm with his stick.
Joy jumps into Zack’s arms while everyone else laughs.
Again, I am asked, “Do you want to see him, Miss Livingston?” I look at the child who has just spoken. His dark eyes and hair seem tranquil today, the first time I have ever felt this way about him. He says, “He’s sleeping. He won’t hurt you.”
I am not worried. I would not miss an opportunity to view an owl nestled in a tree. The kids don’t know how long I have searched for this nighttime musician. “Yeah,” I reply to Darren. “I’d like to see him.”
I step onto the wobbling stones and adjust my eyes to the dark hole. All I see is a mass of brown feathers, a few tainted with gray. Cautiously, I edge forward to get a closer look, grasping the trunk of the tree with one hand. I am determined to see this owl, even if I trip and fall into his sleeping place. I focus, squint, and observe the huddled dark figure. I see his body moving ever so slightly. He’s alive, I think, real and breathing. He’s resting up so that he can serenade the forest again tonight. He is a perfect picture of peace.
“Did you get a good look?” asks Joy, able to speak once more.
“There isn’t much to see,” I say as I step down from the stones.
“He’s a tawny owl,” Darren tells us. “Those are the ones who sing the best.” Coming from a good singer, I guess he would know.
“Where’s his poop?” asks Bobby circling the tree trunk with his stick.
“Yuck.” Rainy pops her sunglasses back over her eyes.
“We had to study owl’s vomit once,” says Bobby. “Remember? In fourth grade?”
“Duh, I remember. It was filled with tiny mice bones.” Bubba is enjoying this conversation too much.
I might just throw up today.
Charlotte speaks into the boys’ cackling. “They toss it out of their mouths. Did you know that?”
“Toss? Toss what?” Rainy eyes her suspiciously.
“The things they can’t digest, like bones, feathers, and claws.” Her voice is mellow even when she is relaying something as disgusting as owl vomit.
“Yeah.” Bubba stretches the word out long and loud. “You’re right. It comes out of their beaks.” He uses his scrawny arms to pantomime a regurgitating animal.
Charlotte is so happy to have everyone’s attention she looks like she just won the spelling bee, not shared information on the digestive patterns of owls.
“Is that right, Miss Livingston?” Dougy asks as he watches Bubba’s gestures.
“I never got to study owls,” I say.
Soon we are back on the trail, ambling on top of damp leaves, pine needles, and pine cones, the tall North Carolina pines shielding the sun. Zack and Robert are in the lead, Rhonda is next to Bubba, and Charlotte and I are at the end. The others are scattered across the path, laughing about the most disgusting things they can think of.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Zack suggests as he runs a hand through his curly hair.
“Like what?” asks Lisa.
“How about food?” Bobby volunteers. “Breakfast was a long time ago.” He pats his stomach and announces, “I vote we head back to the campsite and eat lunch!”
“It’s only ten thirty,” Rhonda says as she looks at the time on her cell phone.
Bobby inserts his blue inhaler into his mouth and takes a couple puffs. He fills his lungs with air and then coughs. “Ah,” he says, “but I can’t breathe, and I need nourishment.”
“You’ll be fine,” I tell him with a smile. “Think