As anyone that knows me knows, I have a thing for owls. And pumpkins. And pince-nez glasses. Also moons, oak trees, kettles, top hats, umbrellas, Gladstone bags, hour glasses, pocket watches, waistcoats, toads, candles, crickets, mushrooms, ravens, harps, books, skulls, walking sticks, scarecrows, etc., etc., and so forth. Owls wise and foolish, deadly and friendly, pepper the literature I love. Their binocular vision, silent flight, and nocturnal habits imbue them with a sort of numinous shadow, and their questioning cry haunts the gathering evening shade. Who goes there? Who's next? Who are you? Why does the owl howl?
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