The Barn Owl

It isn’t often it will make an appearance, but this night, as the dim shimmer of a half moon floods the openings between the spruce trees of Brechfa, the daring sound of a rustling dry branch spikes the senses towards the noise in the void.

Dark, the space, but light the fur off the back of it’s neck, spearing to a point, calling to defence.

Senses deepen as the vision grows sharper.

“What noise will it make next?” He wonders to himself

The rustling of branches draws the attention of the cautious and lightfooted in the dark as the tension in the game peaks.

“Something’s there, I’m sure of it.” He reassures, while holding ground.

Bellow, somewhere, the sentiment of error deepens.

Feet shift deeper into position, grounding the chances of detection to a halt, crouching for the part.

The slender forms of the trunks pierces the imagination as that of a man’s, but the swaying of the dark tells the tale of of a tree.

Danger is always imminent, but my movement is better than that of most. Scramble or dash to hole and I’ll hide.

No matter the noise, the floor is mine.

Still it stood.. before the locked sight of another, ticked.

Not the slightest of movement but the certainty of a clock.

The dark eyes and glimmer and the fleeting check of the ear for an escape, clicks.

The hold has been and the picture is plain.

“Go!” He gestures, pressing it forwards

The mouse breaks shade before the first quill cuts wind.

A darted beak plows outwards from the talon off the glove.

His iris swells and sinks from the glare of the feathers, glimpsing the form of the mouse in flight.

“Barn’s out of reach, grass too thin, I need to break sight!” thought the mouse

“It tried to shave time from my send but my lock won’t break this time.” the owl presses

“Your form supple, and speed unmatched but your nerves will get the best of your act.

The floor is your land, but your land, my landing.

Claw your dodge and feints, but not from eight descending.

Not even the brush you can try to hide in—“

Ground to a gripping halt by the thorns in the wing, the flight, the swoop, the stoop, now pinned.

The owl is stuck as the mouse left bounding.

The chase to a halt, and the mouse turned, asking.

“For a mouse; The claws, the beak, astounding, but a prick in a bush?

I might take lightly.”

The owl now stuck still as the mouse left loudly, by the noise of the night through the leaves and the laughing.