The Owl

An owl drifts over the snowy forest. I look up as he passes, his form barely outlined against the blue. I watch him come. I watch him go. 

I listen as the trees around me spread the news. I listen as the news reaches the stream. I listen as the deer lift their heads, peering out of their shelters. I listen as the owl passes over the forest and lands on a picket fence in the village.

I see him through the eyes of my friends. He sits on the fence and rotates his head. The people come to peer at him through the windows. Their faces push against the frosted glass, the children in the front, the parents behind. I see them lean over and speak into each other’s ears as if to prevent the owl from scaring.

The owl turns his head and looks into the window before taking flight.

The people crowd out of their houses as he leaves. They look up into the sky where he disappeared and try to interpret the message. Why did the owl come in the middle of the day?

But now he is gone and they will never know. They stand, trying to make him come back, calling him with their silent words. They hold his image and watch it hover above them as the sun rotates through the heavens. The sun sinks into the horizon as they stare at the sky. The moon comes out and the people look around them. They blink as if waking and file back into their homes. They bring in wood and relight the fires that have long since died. The children huddle with their dolls and wooden knights by the fire and begin to thaw. The mothers bring blankets and drape them over the shoulders of their children. The stars begin their dance through the heavens.

The owl hovers in the sky watching the village. He peers down on their activities and guards their thoughts. He soars up to the moon and there alights. He sits perched on the single moon tree and feels the solar wind drift past him. He sits unmoved by its force.

The people continue their lives, forgetting the day the owl came.