"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
— Henry David Thoreau
The sky was overcast, but the air was mild, making for a pleasant start to the day. The first stop was a familiar spot near Pheasant Branch, where I hoped to catch sight of a Song Sparrow. As I scanned the area, flocks of tree sparrows and juncos flitted about, their subtle movements blending into the muted landscape. Then, among them, I spotted what I was looking for—a lone Song Sparrow, its presence a small but satisfying reward. Part of the joy of birding comes not just from the unexpected but also from the quiet thrill of predictability—knowing, through experience, where a particular bird is likely to be and then finding it right where you hoped.
And then onto the dreary creek corridor ...
Where I didn't predict this ...
With the help of an agitated Blue Jay, this Eastern Screech Owl (Megascops asio) was no longer a secret. The jay swooped down in a single, sharp dive-bomb, its harsh calls filling the air. The owl, perfectly still and well camouflaged in the hollow of a tree, was momentarily disturbed by the commotion. But its subtle, muted plumage had already been betrayed—the owl's presence was now unmistakable.
While I doubt these small owls actively target Blue Jays, it's not out of the question under certain circumstances. Screech Owls primarily hunt small mammals, insects, and invertebrates, but they are opportunistic predators and will take songbirds if the opportunity arises, especially if they are hungry or if the bird is vulnerable. The jay's dive-bombing was more about protecting its territory and warning others of a potential predator. Though the owl probably posed no immediate threat to the jay, the mobbing was an instinctual response to defend against any perceived danger.
The jay eventually gave up fussing over the owl. I took this as my cue to move in closer, but with slow, cautious steps. Every movement was deliberate, making sure to avoid any rustling of leaves or snapping of twigs that might disturb the owl's quiet presence. I didn't want to risk spooking it, so I kept my distance, careful to remain as unobtrusive as possible. When I was finished taking photos, Sue and I enjoyed views of the owl through my spotting scope.
What a fun find!
Ah, February. Will there be tiger beetles next month? It's been one of the strangest winters I've experienced in all my years living in Wisconsin. While we've had a few frigid sub-zero temperatures that cut through the bones, there's been a surprising lack of snow. Usually, by now, the landscape would be blanketed in a thick layer of white, transforming the familiar into something fresh and serene. But this year, it feels as though winter has been holding back, leaving behind the cold without the beauty and stillness that snow brings. There's something about the quiet of a snowfall that I miss, the way it slows everything down and coats the world in a soft, peaceful layer.
All images © 2025 Mike McDowell