The vole sticks its twitchy little nose out of the shadows and tastes the air with its whiskers. It thinks that no owl is watching.
Think again, vole. This great horned owl has his eyes on you.
I can picture it perfectly: The wind will ruffle my feathers as I dive, I’ll feel the fur beneath my talons, and then—SNAP! Breakfast.
There’s a crash and the tree branches shiver with the impact. It’s my sister, First. “The sun’s been down for an hour and you’re still in the nest?” she squawks.
I don’t know why she’s here. She fledged last week. Mother twittered with pride, watching First’s silhouette disappear into the trees. I tried not to notice Father glaring down his beak at me, like he doubted I’d ever fly off on my own.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else in the forest?” I hoot in reply.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t flap by to check in on my favorite runt.”
“Actually, it does mean that,” I grumble. “You should be claiming territory—some other territory.”
First narrows her eyes, rouses her feathers. “Who says I haven’t?”
This owl says. I can tell from the low angle of her ear tufts, from the grumble in her hoots, that she hasn’t. I feel a little bad for her, want to give her a bit of a nibble on the beak, but then she lifts her tufts and chirrups, “At least I’m not shivering in my feathers at the thought of hunting my own food.”
That’s the First I grew up with, always pecking you right between the eyes, where it’ll hurt most. I contemplate slashing her with a talon. “I am working on a plan.”
“Planning is for prey. You’re a great horned owl. You hunt. You catch something. Or you don’t and try again.”
“You have your way, I have mine.” I turn my eyes back to the vole hole.
First bobs her head, widens her eyes. “Care for a game of Talons?”
Now I’m suspicious. Talons is a game Father invented for us, to prepare us for “the real forest,” he said. We start in trees on opposite sides of a clearing, and whoever forces the other one to the ground wins. First has fledged—she’s in the “real” forest. How bad must things be going for her to want to play with me?
Gah, who gives a hoot? This is First. She’ll figure it out.
“Not now,” I twitter, and pull my feathers into my body, hunker my head down between my wings. “I’m studying.”
Need I say that I was not the greatest player of Talons? Need I mention that First, being the first to hatch, is bigger and stronger and—perhaps this is unrelated to our hatch order—ruthless?
“What?” First tweets. “Is baby Second afraid of stepping a toe out of the nest?” She blinks her eyes: top lid down, then clear guard-lid across.
When I don’t answer, she flaps off the branch.
Even owls have a hard time hearing other owls. Our feathers are so fluffy, they melt into the wind, become a part of it, so nothing—not our prey, not ourselves—can hear our approach. So it’s only when First slams her talons down in the center of our nest—a wide circle of sticks Father stole from a red-tailed hawk back in the dead of winter—that I realize she hasn’t left for good.
She grabs a clump of molted feathers from the nest and drops them on my head as she wings off. She’s not taking no for an answer.
I take a tentative step out onto a branch. “First?” I hoot quietly. “Are we starting? Should I fly out to the clearing?”
The ripples of wind from her wings hit me just before she bops me on the head with her feet. “Already started!”
Great Beak! I stumble, miss a talon, and am off the tree and flapping through the night. I weave between the branches, twisting with the air as it curls around obstacles. The forest gives way to grass and I scan the stars for First.
She’s already swooping down toward me.
I flip my feet forward but too slowly, so I duck my head and dive, and she misses.
“That’s cheating!” she cries, carving through the night to make another pass.
I’ll try this move I saw Father use on an eagle who attacked our nest. I pull my wing in a bit and dip it down. I should flip over, so that my talons are where my back would be, then swirl back around. But the air current tugs too hard. Instead of a graceful twist, I flop over onto my back in midair and begin to drop, upside down and with no way to flap. “Help!”
First snatches my feet in her talons, drags me back up into the nest. “What was that supposed to be?” She drops me like a piece of prey onto the sticks.
“It’s a special flip technique I’m testing out,” I chirp with as much dignity as I can muster.
First blinks slowly. “Planning, testing,” she hoots. “Maybe you should stay in the nest, brother. Out in the forest, you either do it or you’re prey.” She lifts off and disappears into the darkening blue.
It’s full dark by the time Mother returns to the nest with a rat, which she lays at my feet. “Was your father here? I thought I heard hooting.”
“No,” I answer. “It was just me. Practicing.”
Mother nibbles my tufts. “My little perfectionist, even practicing his hoots.”
I bob my head away from her beak. “Mother,” I squeak, then try again in a decent hoot. “Mother, should I—am I—do you think . . . ?”
She tilts her head as if trying to locate the rest of my hoots inside me. “Every owl fledges in their own time.” She pushes the rat toward me. “Eat something.”
I look down at the rat, then back at the vole hole. You either do it or you’re prey, First had squawked.
I push the rat back toward Mother. “You eat it,” I hoot. “I’m catching my own breakfast.”
Mother twitters softly, then flaps off into the night.
She left the rat.
I manage to ignore it until the sun pinks the edges of the sky, but then I gobble it down before closing my eyes to sleep.