An owl called my name

It's way past my bedtime, I can't sleep; but it's not in a hectic or frenetic way that I'm being kept awake. I keep having to pinch myself at the sound of crickets and frogs, that it's no longer the dead, frozen silence of winter nights. Just this last weekend I was gobsmacked by Christmas decorations in the mall, a sure sign that summer's here. Tonight, unusually, there's a soft, repeated hoot of an owl in the distance as it calls my name. It's the very first, and perfect, summer's night here on the escarpment's edge.