It's been a while with no owls.
The last one was in a jewelry shop window in Munich, with jewel eyes gleaming in the night light, hawking silver chains.
But Munich was nearly two weeks ago, and there have been many choices.
When you are going through life it is like orienteering in thick woods without a map or a compass. It is hard to see the trail and sometimes you lose it, but finally you see a marker pinned to a tree, or a stack of sticks, or a pile of stones, and you know you're still ok.
This is what owls are like for me, nudging me back onto the path and making sure my magnet still knows how to feel.
I've been wondering what happened to the owls — whether they don't exist in Switzerland or Santa Fe, or whether I've wandered off track.
But then I see what happened, and I think whoever tightened the straight-jacket around the owl also took the saints, and I wonder who is stealing my guides and why.