Great-horned owls hoot in the evening countryside, but not here anymore. Instead, I hear the barred owl's "hoo-haw." When the ravine area was mostly ranchland and its trees were fewer and younger, great-horned owls commanded the night and red-tailed hawks the day. As suburbanization accelerated in the 1960s, the ravine's forest recovered from cutting and grazing in places where building was prohibited by steep slopes or floodplain. Great-horned owls and redtails like open country so, by the mid-1970s, they left the ravine to nesting barred owls and broad-winged hawks, who choose forest and abide less space because they are smaller.

The succession of wildlings happens as habitat changes, but unless there is severe storm damage nature gradually slows down to longer cycles with less change between the highs and lows. Not so the succession of suburban folks who move in and out according to the dictates of personal income, regardless of local resources, because their livelihood is subsidized by outside energy. Temporary and hence unconcerned, too many do not contribute to human or natural community stability, despite the fact that their democracy and Biosphere depend on it.

Human turnover averages five percent per year in my subdivision, compared to two percent of our resident eastern screech owls. Only half of the eight houses on my cul-de-sac have original owners. One house has had four owners, another three, in fifteen years, so I count heavily on the owls and other natives as neighbors. At least our nature preserve is secure; and I feel fortunate, because natural history is an important psychic aspect of home. Tonight, among bright stars and musty falling leaves, hoo-haws from barred owls blend in an autumn mélange of familiarity, security, and sensory delight.