Flame-coloured: quiet autumn joy

For a bird obsessive, a nature lover, I have recently struggled with motivation to be outside.  I've looked wistfully at my binoculars and camera a couple of times, and even made it as far as getting to my local patch.  Then sat in the car, looked out over the water, and drove away without even raising my optics.  I think I've had a bit of burn out.  I'd put so much pressure on myself to see 300 species, even though I thought I was doing it in a fun, easy-going, stress-free way, that I think I overwhelmed myself.  The thought of going out to twitch, or even a long day of birding, made me feel a bit sick.

An exchange of messages with Leon and Ian on BlueSky gave me a sense of perspective.  Rather than going out to search through every flock of finches for a rare bird, or driving six hours to see a Brown Shrike, I decided to go out and focus on just one species.  I wanted to spend a couple of hours sitting still on the grass and watching these birds, learning how they behave, taking note of their individual markings, to see if I can grow to recognise them across the winter.  I set off for an area not too far from me, and pulled into the rough gravel parking area just in time to see my first of the autumn lifting off from the long grass.  Short-eared Owls are back, and I absolutely adore them.

Some years we have one or two birds, but in good vole years (which this apparently is, given how many I could hear squeaking and rustling through the grass all around me) we get double figures of Short-eared Owls, and in 2023 a memorable month had 23 all hunting across half a mile of field, joined by 11 Barn Owls!  So my hopes were high before I even arrived that I might connect with one of the Shorties, and that first bird to fly is a large, almost monochrome bird with a facial disk that looks like open rounded square brackets.  When perched she looks almost crow dark, with pale brown and white dappling across the upperwing, but when she flies the contrast with the very pale underwing is stark.  

Harassed by Kestrels and Crows, Jackdaws and Goldfinches, she hunted successfully for an hour, making at least four kills (though losing at least two of them to Kestrels!).  One of the things I love most about Short-eared Owls is their size and silence - how a bird with a wingspan so large can arrive without me seeing or hearing it, ghosting in broad daylight and then being so fully present in the area that they're simply impossible to tear your eyes from.  Realising that the bird I was watching wasn't the monochrome original owl, but a warm orange-toned bird with a much more complex underwing carpal pattern startled me.  When had this bird arrived?  How had I missed it?  The Latin name Asio flammeus is so appropriate - "flame-coloured".  Like watching fire take wing, lighting up dull October skies.  Absolute joy as the two birds landed together and then the larger, darker bird hopped up onto a slender perch showing off the extent of her feathered legs.

Their hunting together began to attract the attention of more Kestrels, and with at least six falcons regularly hunting the local fields, it wasn't long before the yipping cries of the would-be thieves was driving the Owls into a neighbouring field.  It's interesting to see how the Short-eareds react to different species: they're very quick to mob Marsh Harriers, taking it in turns to fly above the bigger raptor and buzz it from the sky; they flee from Kestrel aggression, unable to outmanoeuvre the smaller but powerful hunters; they run rings around crows, more agile in the air, and always seeking height to avoid the corvid flocks.  

As light was failing, a third owl arrived in the area, smaller and paler than the previous two.  I watched it fly the extremes of the field, exploring the margins, getting its bearings.  Had it just returned from breeding grounds?  Was this a first year bird, newly exploring on its way through, or was it a returning winter bird?  The light wasn't good enough for me to check against photos from last year and I satisfied myself with watching this phantom drift at head height until the light was completely gone.

When I had set out to see if the Owls were back, I had done so with a heavy heart and burned out.  When I arrived home, I was alive with the kind of joy that quietly settles into your bones when you truly reconnect with nature.  It wasn't a quest, or for a list, or a photography opportunity.  It was awe, a sense of my rightful position within the scheme of things.  For two hours I let every other concern drop.  No stress.  No pressure.  It didn't "fix" all the things that I struggle with; there was no mystical healing.  But it did encompass me completely, enveloping my senses and demanding that I devote attention to the flame-coloured real world right in front of me.