I was carrying bags of give-away clothes to the end of the driveway, tip-toeing across the ice, when I heard a sound scarce around here lately, the faint “who-who” of a great horned owl. Moments later I heard another, similar call. This one was slightly lower in pitch and seemed to come from farther away.

I stopped what I was doing and listened to the duet. One owl was raspy, staccato, insistent; the other smooth, tawny, intricate. It was dawn and the sky was pink. I was enthralled with the wild sounds, felt my day grow larger and more filled with possibility because of them.

And though I would later read up on these owls and learn that they are some of the only creatures that eat skunks, that they prey on ospreys and falcons and are not only not endangered, but endanger others — this doesn’t change the way I felt hearing the owls’ song. It was if the houses and cars and driveways fell away. What was left was the world of wild things.