There he was, the branch wobbling as he shifted his weight from side to side. Slowly he scanned the large walk-in aviary, his home since the accident that had brought him into the recovery centre.  A sudden snap of the head and two large bright yellow eyes fixed on me.

All 60 centimeters and nearly 2000 grams of Snowy Owl pivoted. I had his attention. Unlike the females, male snowies are completely white and invisible against winter skies or the snowy ground where they often perch. 

I glanced at the owl’s impressive talons. Covered with feather tufts, they are perfectly capable of lifting a large hare from the ground mid-flight. His grip looked solid, and his silence was an indication that my days of working slowly, silently in his enclosed world had paid off.

Bored with watching me, this beautiful creature lifted one wing at a time to preen with its sharp black beak, then shook its many layers of body feathers, instantly becoming a fluffy plushy. But there was work to be done.

The vet’s report said that today his wing could be tested. For the last few days I’d left no food for him, he’d be hungry. Hopefully hungry enough to try his wing. A heavy-weight raptor glove covered my right arm to the elbow and protective glasses were stuck on my nose with bluetack. It was a combination which worked with the recovering hawks and falcons, but a snowy owl would be different.

The average hawk’s wingspan is between 61 to 121 centimeters, a snowy’s wingspan is between 121 to 153 centimeters. These powerful, silent wings make them effective hunters.

Click click…his eyes find mine. Gloved arm moves slowly in front of, and away from my chest. Standing strong, I reach into my pocket, pulling out a wiggling mouse by its tail and dangle it well above the glove. His head dips and nods, the talons flex. I don’t expect him to actually land on the glove, after all this is only our first dance.

In a second it’s clear that the recovery is going well, some 150 centimeters of wing are in front of my face, talons fully out to attack. I push forward the glove and mouse in tandem, and suddenly the snowy owl’s grip clamps my arm while the beak grabs the mouse.  Just as quickly he’s away, soaring to the aviary roof. 

In the weeks to come he would grow stronger, his flights longer and his hunting reliable. Then one day it would be decided: the time had come to return him to his home territory, where the wild things belong.