月下去看猫头鹰

It was late one winter night， long past my bedtime， when Pa and I went owling. There was no wind. The trees stood still as giant statues. And the moon was so bright that the sky seemed to shine. Somewhere behind us a train whistle blew， long and low， like a sad， sad song. I could hear it through the woolen cap Pa had pulled down over my ears. A farm dog answered the train， and then a second dog joined in. They sang out， trains and dogs， for a real long time. And when their voices faded away it was as quiet as a dream.

We walked on toward the woods， Pa and I. Our feet crunched over the crisp snow and little gray footprints followed us. Pa made a long shadow， but mine was short and round. I had to run after him every now and then to keep up， and my short， round shadow bumped after me. But I never called out. If you go owling you have to be quiet， thats what Pa always says. I have been waiting to go owling with Pa for a long， long time.

We reached the line of pine trees， black and pointy against the sky， and Pa held up his hand. I stopped where I was and waited. He looked up， as if searching the stars， as if reading a map up there. The moon made his face into a silver mask. Then he called： “Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo，” the sound of a Great Horned Owl. “Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo.” Again he called out. And then again. After each call he was silent and for a moment we both listened. But there was no answer.

Pa shrugged and I shrugged. I was not disappointed. My brothers all said sometimes theres an owl and sometimes there isnt.

We walked on. I could feel the cold， as if someones icy hand was palm-down on my back. And my nose and the tops of my cheeks felt cold and hot at the same time. But I never said a word. If you go owling you have to be quiet and make your own heat.

We went into the woods. The shadows were the blackest things I had ever seen. They stained the white snow. My mouth felt furry， for the scarf over it was wet and warm. I didnt ask what kinds of things hide behind black trees in the middle of the night. When you go owling you have to be brave.

Then we came to a clearing in the dark woods. The moon was high above us. It seemed to fit exactly over the center of the clearing and the snow below it was whiter than the milk in a cereal bowl. I sighed and Pa held up his hand at the sound. I put my mittens over the scarf over my mouth and listened hard. And then Pa called： “Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo. Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo.”

I listened and looked so hard that my ears hurt and my eyes got cloudy with the cold. Pa raised his face to call out again， but before he could open his mouth an echo came threading its way through the trees. “Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo.”Pa almost smiled. Then he called back： “Whoo-whoo-who-who-who-whooooooo，” just as if he and the owl were talking about supper or about the woods or the moon or the cold. I took my mitten off the scarf off my mouth， and I almost smiled， too. The owls call came closer， from high up in the trees on the edge of the meadow. Nothing in the meadow moved. All of a sudden an owl shadow， part of the big tree shadow， lifted off and flew right over us. We watched silently with heat in our mouths， the heat of all those words we had not spoken. The shadow hooted again. Pa turned on his big flashlight and caught the owl just as it was landing on a branch. For one minute， three minutes， maybe even a hundred minutes， we stared at one another. Then the owl pumped its great wings and lifted off the branch like a shadow without sound. It flew back into the forest.

“Time to go home，” Pa said to me. I knew then I could talk and I could even laugh out loud. But I was a shadow as we walked home. When you go owling you dont need words or warm or anything but hope. Thats what Pa says. The kind of hope that flies on silent wings under a shining Owl Moon.

那是一个冬天的深夜，早已过了我该上床睡觉的时间，爸爸带着我去看猫头鹰。外面一丝风也没有，一棵棵树像一座座巨型雕塑，静静耸立着。月光皎洁，似乎照亮了整片天空。在我们身后的某个地方，传来一阵火车的汽笛声，悠长而低沉，如一曲悲歌，令听者伤怀。虽然爸爸早已将我的毛线帽拉下来盖住了我的耳朵，但隔着帽子我还是能听到那汽笛声。农场里的一只狗应着汽笛声狂吠起来，接着，第二只狗也加入进来。汽笛声与狗吠声此起彼伏，着实持续了好一阵子。当所有这些声音渐渐消退，四周一片静谧，恍如梦境。

爸爸和我继续朝树林走去。我们踩在松脆的雪地上，脚底下发出嘎吱嘎吱的声音，身后留下一串灰色的小脚印。爸爸的影子长长的，而我的影子又短又圆。我得时不时地跑上几步才能跟上爸爸，每当这时，我那又短又圆的影子也跌跌撞撞地跟在我身后。但我从未喊过一声。如果你要去看猫头鹰，就必须保持安静，这是爸爸一直挂在嘴边的话。我一直盼着和爸爸一起去看猫头鹰，为这一天我已经等了好久好久。

我们到达了松树林外围，黑簇簇的松树尖顶直入云霄。爸爸举起一只手，我立刻停住脚步，站在原地等着。他仰头看向天空，仿佛是在寻找天上的星星，又好像是在研究天上的一张地图。月光洒在他的脸上，给他的脸庞罩上了一层银色的面纱。接着他发出了“呜呜—呼呼呼—呜”的声音， 这是巨角猫头鹰的叫声。“呜呜—呼呼呼—呜！”他又叫了一遍，接着又叫了一遍。他每叫一遍之后都会安静一会儿，这段时间里我们俩会竖起耳朵仔细地听。但我们没听到任何回应。

爸爸耸耸肩膀，我也耸耸肩膀。我并不失望。我的哥哥们都说过，树林里有的时候有猫头鹰，有的时候没有。

我们接着向前走。我能感觉到天气的寒冷，就像有人把冰冷的手放在我的背上一样。我的鼻子和双颊冻得发烫，但我一声也没吭。如果你要去看猫头鹰，就必须保持安静，还要自己抵御寒冷。

我们走进树林。漆黑的树影洒落一地，破坏了雪地的纯白，那是我见过最浓的黑色。我蒙在嘴上的围巾被我呼出的热气润湿了，让我觉得嘴里毛乎乎的。深更半夜，那些黑乎乎的大树后面会躲着什么样的东西呢？我没有开口问。如果你要去看猫头鹰，你就一定要勇敢。

接着，我们来到这片漆黑的树林中的一片空地上。明月高悬于我们上方，似乎是对准这片空地的中央嵌在空中，雪地在月光的照耀下显得比盛在谷物碗中的牛奶还要洁白无瑕。我叹了一口气，爸爸举起一只手示意我不要出声。于是我用手套捂在蒙着我嘴的围巾上，仔细聆听。然后，爸爸喊了起来：“呜呜—呼呼呼—呜！呜呜—呼呼呼—呜！”

我使劲竖起耳朵听，睁大眼睛看，我的耳朵在冰天雪地里冻得生疼，双眼也蒙上了一层雾气。爸爸仰起脸打算再喊一遍，但他还没来得及张嘴，一只猫头鹰的回应声就穿过树林传来。“呜呜—呼呼呼—呜！”爸爸脸上有了笑意。接着他回应了一声“呜呜—呼呼呼—呜”，就好像他和那只猫头鹰在聊晚餐、聊树林、聊月色或是聊寒冷的天气。我把手套从我嘴边的围巾上拿下来，脸上也有了笑意。猫头鹰的叫声越来越近，刚才听起来还在树的上方，这会儿已经来到了草地的边缘。但草地上仍然一点儿动静都没有。突然，一只猫头鹰的影子如火箭发射一般，从刚才还纹丝不动的一棵大树的影子中猛地分离出来，径直飞到我们上方。我们静静地看着，心里那些激动的话语涌到嘴边，却都忍着没有说出口。那个黑影再次发出了低沉的叫声。爸爸打开了他那支大手电筒，将亮光打在了那只正要降落枝头的猫头鹰身上。一分钟，三分钟，甚至或许是一百分钟，我俩就这么和那只猫头鹰对视着。然后，那只猫头鹰扇动起它那双巨大的翅膀，如一道黑色的魅影，悄无声息地从它落脚的树枝腾空而起，飞回了树林深处。

“该回家了。”爸爸对我说。我知道这下我可以说话了，甚至可以放声大笑了。但是在步行回家的路上，我却一句话也没有说，安静得像一个影子。你去看猫头鹰的时候，不需要开口说话，也不要害怕寒冷，你什么也不用带，只需要心怀希望。这是爸爸说的。那份希望会在明亮的月光下，乘着猫头鹰的翅膀，悄悄地飞到我们身边。