Short Story: Hoot, owls hoot

Owl
Whoosh.

Okay, this week we had a go at a more contemplative short story. We’re so used to writing total madness on here we figured it would be wise to mix things up a little bit for once.

With dramatic writing, there’s a fine line between creating something excellent and veering off towards pretentious bollocks. We dare to push those limits today!

But, anyway, here’s a contemplation on the natural world. The stoic talents of an owl at night – the bloody mess of silence, survival, and strikes.

Hoot, owls hoot

Athena – the Greek goddess of wisdom – found companionship in feathery beasts. Crows were once her thing, but she felt nocturnal birds of prey were more befitting of her stature.

Wise, are owls. That stoic indifference is the matter. The crow cackles in its fiendish might and plunges in. But an owl will wait, making patience a virtue – apparently there is accomplishment in silence.

So it is no surprise you do not see, at the break of dawn, owls gathered in treetops shouting to the world of their whereabouts. Instead, it is in the dead of night. Across some distant vantage point there will be a hoot. From where you will never know.

Those wise eyes stare into the night waiting only for moments of movement. And complementing that natural gift is solemn integrity; elegance and a profound gaze in the world around those cautious eyes.

The owl is quiet. It is a picture of serenity for its time, every time.

It is precise. Poised distant from prey, it is the technique ahead that is the matter. Its neck can bend – it distorts its body – those eyeballs stare on with controlled violence.

Alongside that menace it has the savagery to dominate its space – to control the battle for survival. Because it is all about the hunt.

A freezing cold evening. Mist. Rolling clouds floating – and there is moonlight. The sky dancing to the roll of it all. And an owl can perch on a branch, high up in a tree, and be singular in its pursuit.

Cool dispassion. A swoop, plummeting across that natural backdrop, and a strike – a moment of terror-stricken death for some poor rodent.

Bloodstains on the snow. A whoosh of wings. And back into the air heads owl plus victim.

With a hoot it signals victory over the odds. Another hoot acknowledges greatness. For there is one food source less – now the odds are against the rest. Hoot, owls hoot.

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