My Owl

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  • Published : February 24, 2012
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A scream passing through an open window at the edge of town rattles the settled sounds of a night tucked in, the filtering whispers of leaves outside in the breeze interrupted, yielding to the call of a helpless exater protected by sound walls; only the nearby creek persists. Call of crickets resigns under full moon, and hill-riding wind halts for a moment following the cry. Slowly, the leaves begin to whisper again, though slightly muffled, offset by the impression of a scream when it was the last thing on the night’s mind. Like his twisted feathers, his many scars, the reliable old owl chose the gnarled, weather-beaten, but solid branch often—it being a companion to the wise alone with the night and the last branch to creak in the heaviest wind. He often came to survey the fields and the clouds before his hunt, to listen to the steady sound of the stream passing through reeds under the bridge, while combing his feathers for the unwanted—whatever they might be. The owl heard the scream, and his branch creaked with all the others as the scream seeped into the tree’s blood, flowing slowly through the wood. The tree winced, and the old owl turned his head towards the call. He bobbed his way awkwardly down the branch, away from the run cold blood inside; a sloppily precise side-step with head pressed to breast feathers, moving closer to the tree where the branch was thicker, Thick, strong oak wood was carved into curves and poles all connected to be shaped into the perfect rocking chair. It was painted a deep brown that glints gold when the sun shines on it. The armrests mold to your arms like they were carved precisely for you. It feels like your melting into chair even though it’s a stiff wooden frame. The seat cushion used to be thick and luscious but has become thinner and thinner as the years have passed. It remains tied to the chair by two thin strings that keep in attached tightly to the back of the rocker. The chair is old but the age only makes it more...
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