This picture of an owl captures the look I frequently have on my face. This owl is like, Repetez-s'il-vous-plait, I didn't quite hear that because I have feathers in my ears, I have to do bloodwork again because there was "some confusion" at "the lab"? Have you seen my talons, sirs?
This is the look I give my Husb., when he says something incredulous like, "We have to budget for the holidays." Or when it's 10 pm on Sunday night and one of the kids pipes up, having had the whole weekend to tell me, "I forgot to tell you, Mom, but I need a cerulean t-shirt for tomorrow's field trip can you run out and get one? It must be cerulean! Teal will bring shame on the whole 3rd grade class." And I fix them with my view-finder gaze like they're an insect pinned in a museum collection.
This is the look when I'm on deadline, staring at a blank page.
I know there's a jittery, warm-blooded little story out there, like a field mouse in a fall-brown umber field. But it's well-disguised among the stalks of freshly-threshed wheat. If I stare owlishly long and piercingly, and yellow-eyed enough I know it will move, it can't help itself, and it's movement will alert me to it, and I will swoop in on silent wings with my feet out.