The promise of the owl
It is not the sound that draws my eyes heavenward, for there is no sound.
It is not movement, for in the gloaming, movement is almost as invisible as the silence.
No, it is something more primal, more visceral, more animal in nature. It is the caution of prey that draws my eyes upward, bred deeply into my human animal psyche from a time when our rodent-like ancestors cowered in burrows, hiding from that which would destroy.
Dark wings blot out the pale moon-lit sky, all the more terrifying for the soundless silence screaming out.
Predator. Harbinger. Guide.
The barred owl alights on a nearby post, eyes like all-seeing saucers reading into my soul.
Jenny Wren 