The stub could have been a throne to a haughtier creature bent on ruling a kingdom, but for the little owl the stub was merely a balcony suitable for a bit of sunning on a cold day. But the size and the shape of the stub combined as if they were custom made for the owl.
One day years ago, a violent wind ripped a great limb from a cottonwood; and as the massive limb fell, it stripped a branch from its smaller neighbor. First bacteria then fungi infected the wound. They softened the surrounding wood while the tree hardened itself to isolate the infection.
What: Noontime Nature lecture "Boxelder Bed and Breakfast."
When: Noon Tuesday, June 5.
Where: Loveland Public Library, 300 N. Adams Ave.
Info: This free noontime program is sponsored by Friends of the Loveland Library.
A northern flicker -- the western race with the orange underwings -- found the wound and began plucking bits and chunks of wood from the tree. Its work would make a cavity suitable for raising a brood of young flickers.
But in the starlight of a spring night, a raccoon sniffed out the flicker nest and with its nimble paws enlarged the cavity enough to discourage the flicker before any eggs were laid.
A fox squirrel explored the cavity but ultimately ignored it for being too small.
A house wren began to fill the cavity with twigs, but its own fledglings distracted it before many twigs were placed.
Four times during that next winter, a family of black-capped chickadees spent especially cold nights huddled in the cavity, their togetherness keeping each family member warmer than possible alone.
The cavity remained empty and unused for several months. Then, one September sunrise, the little owl, tired from a night of wandering and hunting without luck, found the cavity. Some reconnoitering convinced it the space was available and safe.
And the eastern screech-owl moved in. And it stayed. For 12 years.
The tree had long since healed the original wound as much as would ever be possible. The bottom of the broken branch stub jutted forward just a few inches, enough to make a comfortable roost for the owl.
All this from a falling limb of a big tree breaking off a branch of a small tree.
Maybe 10 dozen different insects, half as many kinds of birds and half again as many mammals all knew that small tree. They all knew it, but none had a name for it.
People give such things names. Common plant guides and tree books list no fewer than 18 different names for it; however, most books treat it by the name "box elder," "box-elder" or "boxelder."
Whatever its name and however it's spelled, the wildlife know it as a place to rest and to feed. Of all our trees the boxelder is the premier bed and breakfast.
Kevin J. Cook is a freelance writer and naturalist based in Fort Collins. His Wildlife Window column appears in the Reporter-Herald every Thursday.