My thoughts were interrupted when the wonders of night life began to stir in the silence around us.
From a ridge on our right a red fox started barking.
He was curious and, in his small way, challenging the intruders that had dared to stop in his wild domain.
From far back in the flinty hills, the monotonous call of a hoot owl floated down in the silent night.
It was the mating call and was answered from a distant mountain.
I could hear the stamping feet of our horses, and the grinding, crunching noise made by their strong teeth
as they ate the hard, yellow kernels of corn in their feed boxes.
A night hawk screamed as he winged his way through the starlit night.
An eerie screech from a tree close by made shivers run up and down my spine.
It was a screech owl. I didn’t like to hear the small owl, for there was a superstition in the mountains concerning them.
It was said that if you heard one owl it meant nothing at all, but if you heard more than one, it meant bad luck.
I lay and listened to the eerie twittering sound. It was coming from the left of our camp.
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