09/26/2026
The old square grain silo stood alone about a hundred feet east of the road as I drove north. I’d never noticed it before. Maybe they’d cut down some trees recently, because suddenly there it was, sitting out in the open.
I had to stop.
I pulled in and tracked down the person who might tell me if I could look for owls inside the structure. To reach him, I had to pass right by the silo—and that close, I already had the answer to one question: owls were using it.
At the bottom of the tall exterior ladder lay the evidence: pellets and the unmistakable whitewash signature of owls. The ladder allowed access to openings at different heights depending on the level of grain inside.
After a fifteen-minute explanation of who I was, what I did, and why I had pulled onto his property asking permission to climb around an old grain silo looking for owls, the owner said, “Of course.”
Off I went.
Up the ladder, perched on an old door that had fallen and lodged in one of the openings, my prize stared down at me.
