A young barn owl drank from a water trough on the farm, fell in, and drowned. It was found the next morning and soggily removed. Now, the body decomposes in the hedgerow. My eight-year-old nephew showed me the white maggots feasting on the still beautiful corpse; only the beak and fierce talons remain in perfect condition.
Some years ago, my dad retrieved the body of an owl from the road. He thought it was dead, but it was just stunned. As the bird revived, the talons closed and sliced through his hand with ease. Then the ratchet mechanism, designed to keep prey trapped without the need for muscle contraction, locked on, relentless, until the owl released its talons and flew off. I reach out and touch the underside of this owl’s four toes, covered in a rough, pink, knobbly skin, like a starfish. It feels like coarse sandpaper and enables an owl to grip its prey or a branch.
