Resolved to avoid the usual holiday stress, I arose one morning recently and planned my day around wrapping Christmas presents. I decided to get out and fill the bird feeders first. Recent snow had coated the ground with almost a foot of light powder and the chickadees were getting impatient. A bucket of black oil sunflower seeds, a few ears of Indian corn saved from this year’s harvest, and I was ready to roll.

As I was filling the feeders hanging on an old lilac bush, the chickadees arrived above me and scolded hungrily. Plodding through the snow, I crossed the yard to a wooden feeder mounted on an old pine stump. This feeder has a roof and is a favorite of blue jays and squirrels, both red and gray. The stump is on uneven ground, so I need to stretch and balance precariously to reach the feeder and pour in seeds and cobs of dried corn.

A slight sound above my head made me look up; an owl flew slowly and silently from a branch just overhead to a tree not too far away. With my eyes locked on the owl, I finished refilling the bird feeder.

The owl continued to perch and watch me as I backed away silently, wondering how much time it would take to run in the house and get the binoculars before it flew away. When I returned, the owl had flown back to its original branch, assured that it was now safe to begin its vigil anew.

I had noticed that in flight it appeared to be a light, creamy beige with touches of a golden brown. In addition, streaks of brown ran vertically down its lighter chest, and under its beak, a band of checkered brown and cream feathers formed a thick ruff about the neck.

Perched with its back to me, its large dark eyes peered first to its left and then its right, head turning to look in my direction, which gave the illusion of a full, 180 degree revolution. For the next three and one half hours, it remained on its watch; apparently, a bird feeder can feed more than the seed eaters on my list.

Suddenly, the owl’s tail lifted and its wings opened; it dove below the feeder and slipped gracefully into the space created between a log and the several inches of new snow. For a few seconds, the owl disappeared, only to reappear suddenly as it emerged from the trough. It sat a few minutes in the snow with a mouse like tail hanging from its beak. Lunch soon over, it flew back to its perch.

What a photo op! Would this owl with its presidential like stature stay long enough to pose? I made another mad scramble to retrieve my camera, and, sure enough, the stately bird posed as patiently as a New Hampshire presidential primary candidate, turning its head first left, then right, then swiveling to look directly behind itself.

I don’t know when the owl left, but it couldn’t have been long before dark because both my husband and I continued to check every chance we had, and it was there until the light faded.

Needless to say, I didn’t get much gift wrapping done. At some point during the afternoon, I checked my bird book and discovered that this was a Barred Owl, the one who calls, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

Checking the reports of recent New Hampshire bird sightings at Virtual Birder (www.virtualbirder.com/bmail/nhbirds/latest.html), I discovered that Barred Owls are more plentiful in New Hampshire this winter than in years past and learned this may be due to a crash in the red backed vole population in Canada, which forced the owls to move south for food. Barred Owls typically hunt at night, but under stress, hungry owls will hunt during the day.

Knowing that hunger may have driven this bird to my backyard adds a bittersweet tinge to my owl sighting. Hopefully, the owl will survive the winter here by finding all the voles that plague my garden.

If I stop and think back on this day, my neglected to do list didn’t get any shorter, but my list of memorable moments did get longer.

By Helen Downing, Community Tree Steward