Night Owl

In some strange way, she felt relief. A fresh breath, discovering the lungs. Settled now, seated by a window. No longer shocked, no longer startled.

She thought to offer the matter her attention once more, and it occurred to her, that not one word remained for contemplation. Not one, noticeable sensation. Only, a sort of stillness enveloping the space she occupied. A calm beyond her very bones, but not outside of them.

Found in this moment by the window, washed in stillness, locked into her noticing, she inhaled deeply. And in the pause between her breaths, something in motion caught her watery eyes. Caught the light. Some things, just beyond the window. Tiny tumbling flakes, floating by. Dancing with one another, and for her. Arriving and fading from her sight, just like thoughts. The wind gently whistled and tossed them about. Determining their paths.

She tucked her curls behind her ears, and just as quickly as she’d spotted this play from her space, on the warmer side of the window, a whisper appeared. “What a strange and long walk home,” it said “but now, only a memory. An echo. The sound of an old, barn owl.”

She allowed her heavy lids to fall, so that she could better see. Where might this whisper have come from? From which direction? From what body?

With this vision, she found the dark and firm earth which promised no visitors, on this evening. Her gaze drifted downwards, and she discovered, just beneath, dripping with the soft evening light of the moon, her own wet feet. Freckled with snow, and with blood also. In motion and completely bare. Frozen in a way, she realized, she was dancing.

In rhythm with the tiny shards of sky, tossed just as easily by the wind, she could see now, her body blindly in motion. Rolling and bending, beyond earthly control. There was a song playing, she pretended that she could hear. Alone with winter, pale skin and soul exposed, for the moons. And for the fallen phantoms gathering now, like ghosts, in the shadows. She was bound, only by ideas of time, and all of those other words. Pulled, down the path, towards the whisper. Body mimicking the melody, in this memory, by the window.

Of course, she did not fall into step with that stillness in her chest. She danced mightily. She thought, she should. It danced with her. She heard, but didn’t follow the whisper this time. Rather, she turned. In the direction of the bellowing, wild barn owl. And with the wide and fierce wings of wisdom, she was taken away. Oh, she was with the owls now. And so she could see, with their eyes. Familiar eyes. The eyes of her ancestors. Regal, telling stories. So high now, looking down. So much to see.

Even here, with eyes closed, the familiar and gentle whisper wiggled like smoke, once more to meet her mind. Or was it her mind, bending to meet the divine? Again, it visited with its friend, the stillness. Her visitors have been to many she felt. Her visitors were these; curiosity, desire, fear, disbelief. The past. The future. The expectations. The prophecies. The visions. The dreams. Too many things, peering down from these wings.

The whisper, and the stillness. The two tugged at her tired attention, and spoke to her. Not with pictures, or with words. Not with sadness or with joy, or with hope or with fear. In truth, the whisper reached her on some level, which was not translatable. Not, describable. The truth her ancestors spoke. It sounded something like grace. And the pull … magnetic. It spoke to her, in its own way, and it said, “Cease. Come to an end.”

So here she is in the forest, on the cold floor. And here she is by this window, still, seeing. Knowing now - that she, the snow, the night, the firm ground, the dance, the moon, the barn owl, the dreams, and this whisper, were not separate.