He calls from one side of the ravine. She (he?) answers from the other side. For the past two days, I have been listening to two Great Horned Owls wooing each other in the early, warm spring. I can’t help but listen and imagine them, perched high in trees, listening for the voice of the other.
I know this calling out across the world and waiting for a response. I perch at my desk alone. My words sound across the chasm, and from far away I hear a faint response . . . a small recognition that my voice is heard. So I call back again . . . and again, the response comes, a bit louder this time.
It feels like calling into the ravine, like my voice will get lost, tucked into a hollow log or buried in the curve of a branch. But it is not so. . . the response always comes . . . like an echo not mine.
What does it feel like for you to write?