Waiting or Just Being?

Notes from a barred owl webcam

May 19, 2026

A screenshot of the webcam I spent the last several months watching.

Two eggs.

One round, swivel-headed mother owl sitting, rearranging herself, and sitting again.

My hands reach out to touch the screen. I trace invisible hearts all over her owl self with my finger. I’m in love with her perfection.

I check the webcam almost daily. Time passes.

Suddenly, two eggs have become two damp balls of fluff. I gasp. When did that happen? I don’t even see any remnants of shells.

Every day, Mama sorts and arranges the damp balls of fluff beneath her.

Every day, she stares up at the opening of the owl box and then back down at the tiniest version of owls I’ve ever seen.

It looks like waiting but is probably just being.

I start to wonder how she’s feeding them. And then, at some lucky point, I get a glimpse of two talons throwing in a dead mouse.

The days pass and this routine continues— Sitting. Re-arranging. Feeding.

Until it doesn’t.

I open the webcam tab and she’s gone.

Two tiny damp balls of fluff cling to each other in the center of the box. My heart is in my throat. I stare to see if they are breathing.

They are.

I return a couple of hours later. They’re still alone. Still breathing.

Where is she? I feel like I can’t go to bed until she comes home.

I brush my teeth and check again.

Okay, she’s back. With a mouse.

I watch as she feeds her chicks. They eat voraciously, they pass out. She rearranges herself.

It’s the new rhythm.

She leaves.

She hunts.

She returns.

Dead baby rabbits line the corners of the owl box.

Damp balls of fluff slowly become two small birds.

My hands reach out to touch the screen.

I am in love with their perfection.

Weeks pass.

I come and go.

Mama comes and goes.

The two owlets cling to each other.

The bigger one always seems slightly on top of the smaller one—like it’s wrapping itself protectively around the other one’s shoulders.

Sometimes I worry the bigger one isn’t sharing the food deliveries. I check the body of the smaller one whose head is often down and slightly underneath the stronger one—yup, still breathing.

More days pass. Or is it weeks? They are becoming teenagers now, but always, when she is gone, they are touching.

One unit.

She is gone for what feels like most of the time now. I haven’t seen her for days.

And then, checking my email, I happen to hear a new rustling across the tabs in my browser. I click over just in time to see mama has come back with dinner. The box is starting to look small as they crowd together.

I click back a few minutes later. They’re alone again.

They now have more true feathers and look more like adult owls—that astonishing round-headedness and those heart-shaped faces.

I say to my husband, “They are always, always touching. They are never not-touching.”

The day after I say that, they are no longer touching.

Something has changed. Why aren’t they touching? It feels so abrupt. I’m not ready.

A few hours later, I click back. The smaller one is now alone—trying to wrap herself around herself.

No mama. No sibling. I suck in my breath.

Now what?

The owl box looks cavernous as she sits alone in the center.

I check back at midnight when I can’t sleep. Still alone in the darkness.

The next morning, alone.

Hours go by. She doesn’t seem to move.

I wonder if she’s waiting or just being.

I come back in the early evening and I see . . . no one.

No wait, there’s a tiny talon digging into the wooden sill of the box opening in the top left corner of the webcam window.

“It’s your turn,” I whisper. Oh God.

I choke up as I watch that tiny talon open and close and open and close as you hop and rearrange yourself in what feels like preparation to take that final big leap.

What will you do?

How does this work?

I write for a few hours and keep an eye on the tip of your talon. I see a breeze moving the feathers above your claws. You lean back and I see your wings opening out and closing again like you’re thinking about it.

The lingering on the sill goes on for hours.

And then suddenly, you hop back inside and start rummaging around.

You look older than this morning. More self-possessed somehow.

As the evening fades and it suddenly becomes dark, you’re back on the sill—I can only just glimpse the very tip of your talon.

Are you getting up the gumption this time? Or just being?

Is there an instinctual internal clock that tells you when?

Or does nature use hunger to help you make the leap?

Is this the moment you just lean into the air and let go?

Nope. You’re back inside again.

You poke around in the nesting for bits of food. You scratch an itch, settle down, and close your eyes.