Andrew Moore

The Trophy Room

I don’t count owls as birds. Bluejays, cardinals, even the blackest raven don’t bother me at all. It’s the creatures that roll their necks around to the back of their heads like someone possessed by a demon. The monsters that screech in the dead of night like a woman being quickly spread out on a torture rack. The devils that spread their wings and flew, like a specter, just to sit there and watch you with their dead yellow eyes. The carrier pigeons from hell: the owl. They bother me.