Although the purpose of the morning’s jaunt was to look for something else, I casually commented that we should keep an eye out for Pygmy Owls—it was that time of year.
The odd thing was that I neither expected to see one—a jaunt planned around such an illusive target would surely be doomed—nor did I understand why this was the best season to hope for a sighting. Mine was a throwaway remark.
Indeed, as I drove down the road, I didn’t even suspect that the tiny ball of feathers on an overhead wire was the owl I sought. It was merely something that merited a second look.
The Northern Pygmy Owl is a permanent resident and active during the day, yet sightings of it vary greatly though the year: occasional in winter, rare otherwise. The explanation is that when nesting, this owl prefers altitudes above a thousand metres. Although humans enter its domain, low numbers and secretive behaviour make it difficult to spot. It is not until the snows come and the owl descends to the valleys that chance observations increase. With luck, I might see another over the ensuing snowy months.
A tiny ball of feathers was perched on a wire crossing a highway. Although an effective predator of rodents and other birds, the Pygmy Owl is only about the size of one’s fist.
We circled back and found that the feathers belonged to a Pygmy Owl, now hunting beside the road.
This owl is not only a predator, it is also prey. Two large eye spots on the back of its head offer a striking defence: it seems always on guard.
The owl constantly scanned the ground for delectables. At one point it dived, but failed to get breakfast.
The Pygmy Owl treated the camera as neither prey nor predator. This allowed portraiture.
