It woke me the other night. I hadn't heard the sound for over a year, when I lived in a house tucked back in a wooded Pennsylvania valley. The deep, soft "who-who, who, who" of a great horned owl echoed in my Texas track-house neighborhood.
Something about the hooting calmed me. Perhaps how it came so quietly, yet strong enough to seem overhead. Maybe the tone matched an elemental chord within my soul.
With every call from the nocturnal bird of prey, tension left my body. Peace enveloped me. Sleep took over, deep, satisfying slumber--rudely interrupted by an inhuman shriek, the sound of a harpy.
No, merely the other, lesser known voice of my feathered friend.