A snowy owl usually appears indifferent. Sitting on a fencepost along a barren cornfield, it is a bird without country or concern. Driving snow and vicious winds don’t matter. You don’t matter either. A snowy owl doesn’t care that you’ve driven halfway across Vermont to see a bird. A snowy owl doesn’t even know you exist. Or if it does know, it doesn’t really give a hoot about you anyway.
So you stand there next to the car, hands and feet already frozen, peering through binoculars at a creature that has flown here from someplace dreadfully colder than Vermont.