When the Owl Comes: Learning to Protect and Coexist on the Homestead

This past week, we lost a duck.

Then another.

Both attacks happened silently in the night—one clean and swift, the other nearly complete. No warning, no chaos. Just feathers. A body. And the realization that something new had entered our homestead rhythm.

We’ve dealt with predators before. Raccoons. Possums. Foxes. Even hawks and the occasional bald eagle flying overhead. But this was different.

This was a Great Horned Owl.

It’s strange, isn’t it? To feel so much awe for something that’s currently feeding on your flock. We’ve always loved hearing the owls in our woods—their haunting calls, their wild presence in the trees. One night not long ago, a trio of Barred Owls perched in the maples just outside our bedroom window, calling so loudly it woke me up at 3 a.m. I was exhausted—and absolutely mesmerized.

There’s something sacred about sharing space with apex predators.

But now, that space feels fragile.

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We free-range our ducks. Always have. They know us, trust us, and have had the freedom to live a full, semi-feral duck life. It’s part of how we raise them—resilient, social, grounded in the natural rhythms of our land.

Our Black Swedish ducks have especially thrived this way. They’re hardy, quiet, and surprisingly well-camouflaged in our wooded setting. Their dark coloring has likely helped us avoid predator issues until now, and they seem to carry themselves with a kind of situational awareness that suits free-range life. We love them for that. We love that we’ve been able to offer them a lifestyle where they can truly thrive, not just survive.

But now, we’ve had to pivot.

We added a few lighter-colored Runners this year—for our singleton hatchling, Brightbill—and while we don’t regret it for a second, it likely made our flock more visible from above. We’re no longer just hosting a quiet group of shadow-colored ducks in the brush—we’re a blinking beacon to the Great Horned Owl now living in our woods.

And once an owl succeeds, it remembers. It returns. It waits.

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So we’ve made changes:

• Every duck is now secured in the coop at night—whether they like it or not.

• We’ve reinforced the seams with what we have: chicken wire, zip ties, lumber scraps.

• Reflective CDs hang from string like strange little wind chimes.

• We listen at night now. Watch the clock. Wait.

And we’re learning.

We’re learning what it means to protect not just the life we raise—but the wild life we coexist with.

We still love owls here. We still whisper in awe when we hear their calls echo through the trees. But we also stand firm between their hunger and our flock. And we’ve learned to hold both—reverence and resistance—because that’s what real stewardship sometimes requires.

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If you’re a fellow homesteader, here’s what we now know about owl attacks:

• Great Horned Owls are night hunters—most active between dusk and 2 a.m.

• They prefer clean kills, often removing just the head or neck and leaving little sign of struggle.

• Once successful, they’ll return night after night until denied access.

• Camouflage helps, but lighter-colored ducks (like fawn & white Runners) are much easier for owls to detect.

• You need a fully enclosed coop, and visual deterrents like CDs, reflective tape, or motion lights can help.

They are protected under federal law, so removal isn’t an option. Prevention is everything.

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This is the side of homesteading people don’t always see.

It’s not just sunsets and sourdough and ducks waddling through flower beds. It’s also midnight losses and predator pressure and learning to walk the line between wild beauty and heartbreaking reality.

We’re still walking it. And we’re still learning.

But for now—every duck made it through the night. And that’s enough.