Here where the suburbs meet a lake and where the foothills of the Sierra position themselves just a glance to the east, our trees open their branches to a royalty of birds, like the Great Horned Owl who greeted me tonight with a four-hoot phrase when I got out of my car.

He claimed a redwood tree across the street. I was near enough that he warned me I had encroached upon his territory. His husky bass projection informed me he was no measly barn owl, but rather a formidable, meaty bird fully capable of carrying away my 17-year-old, crippled dog.

His declaration was a four-word phrase – a long whoooo, followed by a quickly hyphenated who-who, then an ending that comprised a “who” but punctuated by a flutter in his big-boy owl throat.

I pulled my shoulders back and constricted my throat. I, too, can do bass when I need to. “Whoo,” I bellowed with pursed lips.

The rustling of the redwood branches was proof he was laughing at my accent, yet the Great Horned Owl challenged me again, “Whooo, Who-Who, Who.”

Beautiful, I thought, and I went inside to fetch the cripple. When I would return, I would demonstrate my beast and I were in control of our home territory.

The owl had keen night vision, capable of telescopically spying upon the mail I had in my hand.  So surely, he would also take notice of the boast I had just thrown in is face by parading my blind, 18-pound bichon frise around the yard. The challenge was out: man and dog vs. owl, two-on-one.

“Whooo, Who-Who, Who,” he sang.

The poetry of the evening was too rhythmic, too well lit by the waning moon for me to initiate any more competition with such a magnificant creature. After all, he owned a beak and could see in the dark without glasses.

Instead, I started a conversation.

I mimicked the owl’s four-word phrase. My fourth word came out wimpy. Correcting on the last syllable, I transitioned from bass to alto. To my surprise the Great Horned Owl began talking back.

“Whooo, Who-Who, Who,”

We kept this up for minutes, my four syllables to his deep, throaty flutter — until I heard a second owl calling in from a distance out of the north. Faint but clear, the second owl delivered his four words, alternating in sequence. As if singing row, row, row your boat, we continued on chanting an offset musical round in owl-speak.

If that were not enough, a distant third and fourth owl chimed in — each in command of their trees, who knows how far away. Was I now part of the group? A throaty quartet turned quintet? 

My voice tired quickly. My self-confidence waned as well. While I’m confident the neighbors would love a good owl hoot, I suspect they would have counter opinions about an old guy howling in his yard. They’d have all the right to whisper about me at parties.

However, what everyone missed tonight was the lovely harmony of four birds and a dog-owner, all engaged in the impromptu formation of Folsom’s Man and Owl Chorus. We delivered just a single performance, a one-time, one-hit wonder.