As some of y’all may know, I tend to dwell on moments.

This can, of course, be a detriment — such as when I wrestle with awkward moments that happened 10 years ago while trying to sleep. But other times, I find myself reflecting on a moment from which it becomes a well that I draw much more joy from that I might not otherwise if I were quicker to move on from things.

One such wholesome moment came this past Saturday, when I finally was able to snap a photo of a bird I’d been seeking to catch a glimpse of in the wild for some time: an owl.

Owls happen to be one of my all-time favorite birds. I see them as one of those birds that really retains that air of enchantment around them that we impart on them as kids, perhaps because they are so elusive. They figure so much in the folklore and fantasy media I enjoy, not to mention my favorite children’s book character — Owl, from Owl at Home — who I relate a lot to.

On top of that, I’ve never encountered a wild owl, which I always considered odd. I feel like I grew up adjacent enough to, and spent a lot of time in, the country. Not to mention, it’s not like they don’t venture into the city. Just a few weeks ago a friend shared a photo of one she encountered on a power line in Corpus. But, perhaps, my not seeing one is more a testament to how little I did spend out in nature when I was younger.

Either way, I was ecstatic when I saw someone share a beautiful photo of a great horned owl they took at a nearby pond I frequent. This followed several sightings folks had shared on social media that took place specifically in my neighborhood. The anticipation started bubbling in me — at last, here was my chance.

So what I’m about to say may be an unnecessary precaution, especially since like 3 people read these posts. I know this spot is promoted as a birding area quite often and the owl I ended up encountering has apparently been familiar to locals for years, but I think I will refrain from disclosing exactly where it’s at. I often think about instances I’ve seen where crowds descend upon a location to catch sight of a particular species after a well-meaning birder shares their discovery on social media. It ends up being a pain for everyone involved and may even disturb the bird that folks are trying to catch a glimpse of. Also, I know this particular owl’s presence is somewhat fragile here (more on this later).

But if ye be friend, just hit me up and I would be more than happy to take you to the spot sometime.

Anyways, fueled by the sightings and photos that were appearing on my radar, I began making excursions out to the pond on a regular basis with the express intent of spotting the owl. The weather lately has been gorgeous — hovering in the mid-70s in the evenings when I would go. Prior to these first outings, I hadn’t really done any birding since the move due to the abnormally hot summer Central Texas underwent this year.

Outside of honing in on the spot I know the owl had been typically sighted, I really didn’t have much of an explicit method for searching. I’d seen videos some time ago on tips for spotting owls — identifying trees with their scat markings, looking out for the pellets they regurgitate, etc. But I really wasn’t certain if there was anything else of note I needed to be watching out for. I resigned myself to slow walks down the paths that surrounded the pond, sometimes humming Kaepora Gaebora’s theme from Ocarina of Time, and stopping often to scan the treetops — which eventually caused some soreness in my neck that made the search much more cumbersome.

On top of this, there really wasn’t much else to see. I often hear crows and blue jays about when I’m not looking, but it seemed like each time I went for these walks, they were nowhere to be seen. I did see a couple of other birds, including a heron and some cardinals, but nothing I hadn’t seen before. Not to mention, squirrels are in absolute abundance in these parts so every little bit of movement I’d hear in the branches that perked my ears up often ended up being one of these little creatures hopping about on the treetop highways.

There was one moment that did reinvigorate my search, and that is the time I stopped at this little birding outpost slightly off the path. It’s a quiet area, and as I watched cardinals take turns sipping water, I heard a “hoot hoot hoot” nearby. I stuck around, certain of what I had heard, but despite all my best efforts I could not spot the source of the hooting.

But after several weeks of these outings, this past Saturday finally proved fruitful.

I actually started the day with an outing that came up empty. It was a beautiful, brisk morning which made it quite a nice stroll, but there was little to show for it when it came to photos. I even shared the experience on my birding Instagram account, just kind of logging for anyone interested the latest critter I was on the hunt for. I think that’s one thing I love about the community on the socials — folks do tend to get excited for each other when we come upon a “lifer.”

By noontime, I cut my losses and went about the rest of my day.

My plans for the evening had fallen through, however, so after a few fun excursions throughout the afternoon and returning home to rest a bit, I decided to head back to the pond in the evening.

I always find the pond such a wonderful space in this neighborhood, and the neighborhood itself is quite welcoming. I often meet folks on the paths there, saying “hello” and really getting to see who all make up this community. This evening I had crossed paths several times with a father and his two daughters — I would guess they were 5-7 years-old — speaking with such excitement to each other in Spanish as they explored the park. The little girls, in particular, were so excited to see the various dogs make their way along the paths and I laughed several times as they quizzed owners on the names and breeds of their pups.

I started out at the usual spot, which is nearby a small dam that has typically been dry but this time had water from recent rains running through it so that it formed a sort of creek. Part of it is nestled in a spot kind of off the walking path — where trees envelope overhead, keeping much of the light at bay and muting some of the sounds surrounding you. I had chosen not to go too far into there when I first arrived because earlier that morning my boots had ended up caked with mud after exploring it.

However, after about an hour making my way about the pond, I decided I’d make one quick stop there just to check before I left. Before entering the tunnel of trees, I caught sight of a golden retriever who had quickly decided to take a dip into a deeper part of the dam, much to his owner’s dismay. The little girls who were playing nearby chuckled as the dog crawled out of the water, shook itself off, and proceeded to roll around in the mud as its hapless owner looked on in resigned amusement.

I laughed and continued on into the tunnel, where I was immediately struck by the sound — “hoot hoot hoot hoot.”

I froze. I readied my camera as I gazed up at the trees.

Nothing.

But still: “hoot hoot hoot.”

I felt like I was in serious birding mode at that point — absolutely quiet in my steps, eyes meticulously scanning all about me, listening intently as I could as to the direction of the hooting. In my mind there was nothing else around me at that moment — just me, the owl, and the “forest” around me.

Of course, the reality was that I was in a community park and the aforementioned pup who had taken the dip just minutes before came up right behind me, followed by its owner. The hooting stopped. The retriever took another dip in the creek before us — the owner much more obliging this time so as to see the mud washed off before they continued on their way. But for a moment I was frustrated as I was certain they had scared the owl off.

However, once they left, I heard it again. “Hoot hoot hoot hoot.”

It was then I noticed that there wasn’t just one, but two owls that were calling and responding to each other. Finally, I spotted them. It wasn’t easy to make them out — they were masked by the tangle of branches and foliage and silhouetted by the setting sun, but it was unmistakable.

It was then I heard another sound coming up from behind me, the sound of the little girls’ voices: “an owl!”

I turned to see them running up to where I was standing. They stopped next to me and looked up at the trees but they couldn’t see it.

At first, I was indeed frustrated that their shouts might have scared the owls off. But then we all heard it: “hoot hoot hoot.”

Finally I got a good glimpse of one of them. There, on a high branch maybe some 40 feet from me, was a great horned owl illuminated just enough by the sun that I could make out its features. I steadied my lens, focused, and let the shutter fly before it moved again.

I looked at my preview screen to see what I’d gotten. It wasn’t as clear as the photo I’d seen that lit that fire in me to come out here all these weeks, but it was a photo — my first-ever of an owl, and perhaps my first time ever seeing a wild owl. A lifer.

The girls were still looking up, asking each other aloud “where is it?” I unslung my camera and turned the preview screen over to the girl closest to me. They both gathered around, gasping in wonder at the photo. By then their father had caught up with us. “You got it?!,” he said excitedly before wowing at the photo I showed him, as well.

I slung my camera back on and we all just stood there. The moment was muted — just the sounds of swaying branches, the running waters of the creek and our hushed excitement as we gazed up at the tangle of branches, listening to the hooting from the shadows that would occasionally fly before us.

After a few more unsuccessful attempts at getting another photo, I told the father and his little girls I was going to try a different vantage point and made my way up to the path that looks down onto the wooded area we had been in. When I got there I saw one of the owls briefly, but there was just as little luck in spotting them from there — perhaps even less so.

I did, however, encounter an older woman who had likewise stopped to look down onto the trees.

“Did you see the owl?,” she asked.

“There were two!,” I told her.

At that, a look of excitement and relief fell over her. She told me that there had originally been two owls that nested in that area, but one had been discovered not long ago that had died after getting tangled in some fishing line. She said this had crushed many in the neighborhood, and that since then there had been a lot of hope that the owl left behind would find a mate. My news, perhaps, may have given her the hope they had all been longing for.

We stood and listened for the hooting a bit longer, chatting some as she told me more about the neighborhood. She embodied much of the sense I had thus far gleaned as a newcomer looking in — the community is close-knit, but indeed welcoming. She was glad that I was here, that I already seemed to share a love of the moments that could be found in these spaces that had meticulously been preserved to retain its natural character.

After saying our “goodbyes” I made my way back to my car quite moved by that evening. Perhaps, as I tend to do, I am giving more weight to the moment than is needed.

But I knew reaching the end of my search would be momentous — given how long I’d been looking to spot an owl. That I wasn’t alone when I reached the end of that short journey — the father and his girls, the woman I met afterwards — it reminded me how special it is to share moments like that with others.

I’m already planning to go back and try and get a better photo of that owl this evening. But the one I have now, given all I’ve just written, is already a special memory to me.