The Crows and the Owl

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The Crows and the Owl

All the smaller birds–the chickadees, the nuthatches, the song sparrows–dart through the bushes, turning their black-and-white heads, watching the fleeting wings up above, the crows with their loud and crinkled voices. They watch as the owl sits patiently, his wings tucked in, his eyes slowly blinking as the crows rush at him. He’s young, still wearing a scarf of baby feathers around his neck, but he’s not afraid. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and, for now, all there is to do is wait. The sun folds through the cedars, lighting up pillows of moss, and strings of spider silk, and the tree-ferns at the owl’s feet. At last the crows fly off, creaking throatily, their wings loudly flapping. The owl huddles in, lets the sun warm his face, and then he stretches out one leg. There’s something in his talons, a mouse, or a mole, something rectangular and graying, and at last he’s able to take it back to his nest, and the forest returns to its singing.

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