Triptych Panel 2 of I am Too Alone—The Owl and the Rabbit

A dusting of new snow covered the ground, and the olive green, camo-colored tarp that shielded the remaining cord of wood was being tested by gusts of wind. The day before I had adjusted the bungee cords to secure the tarp, the corners of which were now flapping wildly as another winter front approached. Two large pine trees, one on each side of the raised woodpile, retained pockets of snow from the previous storm. From the road they appeared as sentinels appointed to stand guard beside the stack of hardwoods.

Within the stack and the undergirding pallets, a protected structure six feet in height, were resident rabbits, mice, perhaps chipmunks and squirrels, all vying for space in a natural tenement of sixteen-inch logs of elm, oak, and maple.

I took pride, flatlander that I am, in the symmetrical stacking of the wood and the building of a strong foundation on which it lay. I thought of my father while undertaking outdoor projects, ones he engaged in with little interest other than that driven by necessity—a frame of mind he shared with other fathers on our street. The seasonal upkeep and yard work provided opportunities for him to wear tattered but still functional WWII army fatigues, gloves, short and long pants, knit cap, T-shirt, and when necessary a sweater and jacket—all in Army issue olive green. On those occasions when he would playfully engage me as his co-worker, fulfilling the “honey-do” list given him by my mother, I would tag along as his five-year-old lieutenant, gladly taking orders. We’d rake and shovel together, hose-off screen and storm windows, and though I thought he looked silly in his fatigues, I willingly held ladders and handed him tools on request—he was my Hero and Captain.

And now, decades later, as I stood looking out at the woodpile from my second floor home-office window, I smiled at the memory and vision of my father in his “dress” greens.

My brief reverie was interrupted by movement on the far side of the woodpile, where a large rabbit emerged from the safety of the pallets and stack of wood. Unbeknownst to me and the rabbit, a still but vigilant horned owl, perched fifteen feet above ground on a tree branch, had been watching and waiting.

I felt the same queasiness in my stomach that I’d experienced as a boy when wind gusts caused the ladder to sway while my father clung to the leaf-filled gutter he was cleaning. Within seconds the beautiful and lethal bird swooped down, claws extended, and pounced upon the unsuspecting hare. The strong and determined bird lurched up and down as the rabbit tried to resist and sank its talons deeper and deeper into the victim’s neck and back. The flapping of the tarp muffled any sounds as I watched in horror and fascination while the helpless prey continued to struggle to free itself.

Once satisfied that it had control, the owl attempted to fly off with the rabbit firmly clutched in its claws. Though strong and approximately two feet in height, the predator dragged the kill through leafless underbrush to a location behind a large elm tree. I had retrieved a pair of binoculars from an adjoining room, and as I focused on the base of the tree trunk, the owl peered out from behind and looked straight at me—a piece of the rabbit’s flesh hanging from its beak.

I was a part of something natural, chaotic and unsettling, but even more importantly, an uncomfortable feeling overcame me—I felt separate and alone.

For some reason this conjured an old memory of my brother, who often described his place at the dinner table, when our parents would be quizzing, instructing or lecturing me, a time when he felt like the fourth wheel on a tricycle.

Now, I stood in my own home, looking into a forest on our property, at a woodpile of my own creation, and felt alone, that I didn’t belong, or had no place in what had just unfolded—the fourth wheel on a tricycle.

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