It was one of those sticky July evenings when the air felt heavy enough to drink, and our family was just finishing dinner. The ceiling fan was doing its best, the iced tea glasses were sweating little puddles onto the table, and the kids were halfway through convincing us that dessert should come before dishes.

Then it happened.

From the backyard came a sound—half rasp, half yowl—that made all of us stop mid-bite. It wasn’t a dog. It wasn’t the wind. And it definitely wasn’t our cat Pita’s usual squeaky meow. This sound was different, like a raspy cat meow that had been dipped in gravel and sharpened into something almost bark-like.

We exchanged “Did you hear that?” looks, and my husband grabbed the flashlight while I headed toward the back door.

The humid night wrapped around us, cicadas buzzing in the trees. And then we saw it.

High up in the old pecan tree, framed by the last blush of sunset, sat a short-eared owl.

Now, if you’ve never seen one in person, imagine a bird dressed like the landscape itself—mottled browns and buffs, streaked with pale markings that break up its outline. Its yellow eyes were two tiny lanterns glowing in the dusk. This one was small—likely a juvenile—but it had the confident air of a creature that knows it can fly silently and spot dinner from a hundred feet away.

We stood there for a long moment, letting the fact settle in: short-eared owls aren’t common in our yard. Grasslands and marshes are their playground, not suburban backyards. Yet here was one, blinking down at us with the unbothered patience of someone wondering why the humans were making such a fuss. The kids were thrilled. I was thrilled. Even Pita, sulking in the corner, seemed impressed.

Short-eared owls (Asio flammeus) are not your stereotypical “wise old forest owl.” They’re nomads of the open country, preferring grasslands, marshes, tundra, and wide, flat fields over dense woods.

In Texas, you’ll most often spot them during migration or winter, patrolling prairies and coastal marshes with a low, buoyant flight that looks almost moth-like.Unlike many owls, they’re active both in daylight and twilight, especially at dawn and dusk. Their specialty? Rodents—particularly voles, which they hunt with precision. They’ll also take mice, shrews, rabbits, and the occasional small bird.

When hunting, they don’t just perch and wait. Instead, they cruise low over the ground, wings flexing and tilting as they listen and watch for movement. When they find their target, they drop with silent accuracy.

Short-eared owls are medium-sized, about 13–17 inches long with wingspans stretching from 33 to 43 inches. Their mottled brown, tan, and buff plumage makes them almost invisible in tall grasses. The “ears” in their name refer to small feather tufts on their heads, which are often barely noticeable.

Their eyes—intense yellow and ringed with dark facial disks—are like tiny suns. Those facial disks work like satellite dishes for sound, funneling even the faintest rustle straight to their ears.

Mating & Nesting

When spring arrives, short-eared owls turn into sky dancers. Males launch into courtship flights, flapping high, then diving dramatically while clapping their wings together below their bodies. They’ll spiral and loop in wide circles, sometimes holding a vole in their talons as if to say, “Look, I’m a great provider.”

If the female approves, the pair will stay together for the breeding season. They nest on the ground—quite unusual for owls—choosing a spot hidden in thick grasses. The female scrapes out a shallow bowl, lines it with grass and feathers, and lays 4 to 7 eggs.

She alone incubates them for about 24–29 days while the male becomes a full-time grocery service, delivering prey to her with unwavering dedication.

Once the chicks hatch, the female broods them for about two weeks, shielding them from predators and the weather.

Meanwhile, the male’s hunting rate skyrockets—sometimes bringing in prey every 10 minutes during peak demand.

By about two weeks old, the chicks begin to wander from the nest (a phase that might be called “branching” in tree-nesting birds, though here it’s more like “stumbling into the grass”). They learn to fly at around a month old but still depend on their parents for food for several more weeks as they practice hunting.

Their Role in the Texas Ecosystem

Short-eared owls are excellent pest control specialists. By hunting rodents—especially voles and mice—they help keep populations balanced in grassland and agricultural areas. A single owl can eat several small mammals in one night, which is not only good news for farmers but also helps maintain healthy ecosystems.

Because they prefer open areas, their presence signals that a habitat is still functioning well. Unfortunately, habitat loss from agriculture, overgrazing, and development is shrinking their range.

Protecting Texas grasslands isn’t just about saving owls—it’s about safeguarding everything that lives there, from wildflowers to pollinators to pronghorn antelope.

While most owls stick to deep hoots, the short-eared owl has a voice all its own. Their call is a hoarse, barking “waaah” or “kee-yow,” sometimes compared to the sound of an irritated cat or a creaky door hinge.

During breeding season, males combine this call with their aerial displays, making for a strange and memorable performance.Hearing it for the first time is… well, confusing. You might think some unfortunate animal is in trouble until you spot the owl making the noise. And once you connect the sound to the bird, it becomes one of those delightful “nature quirks” you can’t help but tell people about.

That night in July, we watched our unexpected visitor for nearly twenty minutes. Every so often, it shifted on the branch, letting us see the long, graceful wings folded at its sides. A moth drifted too close, and in one quick, silent movement, it snatched it midair.

Eventually, it gave a final, gravelly call and launched from the branch, gliding low across the yard before vanishing into the dark. We stood in the warm summer air for a long moment afterward, still grinning. The dishes could wait. Dessert could wait. It’s not every day that the wild swoops into your own backyard and perches in a pecan tree, looking at you as if you’re the curious one.

The short-eared owl is more than just a beautiful bird—it’s a thread in the fabric of Texas’s wild places. Whether soaring over a windswept prairie or surprising a family in their backyard, it carries the spirit of the open landscape with it. And if you’re lucky enough to hear that scratchy, bark-like call on a summer night, you’ll know the wild is still out there, watching.