But their urgency to secure a free meal from me has increased. The adults fly buoyantly alongside me now. Midweek one flew in to a feeding platform whilst I stood just three steps away. I know because I counted back after it had deftly snatched its tea and flown eastwards to the trees. Such bravado belies desperation. My elation at their greeting is mixed with frustration for them as harsh times make life so difficult for them.
The owlets continue to amuse me. They shriek and hiss at me at dusk when my route takes me past the straw stack. How dare I walk so close without bringing food. After dark their urgency is palpable and I can hear them hissing before I reach the farm yard. Once over by the straw stack I pick them out, peering anxiously at me, daring to stay out as long as they can. Some times they fly along the dyke edge but more often they disappear into the straw. Which ever they choose their insistent hissing continues.
Although I rarely see the adults feed these youngsters I still wait to make sure the female goes into the shed to feed her still dependent younger owlets. She flies back to the shed as soon as I am out of sight and bustles herself with the important job of sustaining the owlets single handedly. I have noticed her this week most mornings hunting along the river. When it was windy this capable, innovative mother hunted from the pipe low down where she can keep an eye out for voles without having to contend with the harshest of the weather.
I have been also been peering through the door chink both mornings and at teatimes on my dog walk. I scour the dusty floor for any owlets in trouble. This seems a compromise between leaving them alone completely and going into the shed each day which would be hugely intrusive as it is rarely opened. On Wednesday, as the sun was leaving us, I peered inside to see three fully feathered owlets perched just outside the nest box peacefully snoozing. As unobtrusively as possible I crept away. I was captivated but my pleasure was short lived.
On Thursday morning I peered inside and immediately saw something white and still, close to the wall. I knew without going inside what it was. Sure enough it was one of the younger owlets as it was unringed, perhaps the one I rescued a week or so back, possibly its younger sibling. It was dead but, to add to my consternation still fairly fresh. Its wings were beginning to form but it was still quite fluffy. I checked the shed thoroughly but all the others seemed to be inside the box.
As is my way I went into overdrive trying to work out the scenario of events leading up to its death. The main question was whether it had died and been ejected from the box or whether it had fallen. It seemed a little too far away to have been cast out, yet I hadn't seen it the night before and there was a fresh day old chick close by. Surely if it had been alive and well on the floor it would have taken the chick. It did however seem very light and I feel that it must have starved. Despite the past couple of days having being dry, the task of keeping five young owlets alive so late in the season had been a job too difficult for our single mum, even with my help.
My worst fear? That actually it was my fault. That in checking them, I inadvertently caused it to fall. Or that later in the evening, in the melee that occurs on my approach with food, this youngster was pushed. Its at times like this that I question what I do. I feel the loss so keenly, I cannot seem to harden myself to such events. I console myself with the fact that these two younger birds would have struggled to fledge so late in the year but still I dwell on the events of mid week. Finally I tell myself it is all pointless the owlet is no more. I will check the box early next spring and make sure it is as safe as possible. I have been debating cameras. This box may be a good site to start with. It would be another clever way to count them out and count them back in again. I resolve not to be defeated and continue, at least for now.
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