The other day I heard a sound – wild and invisible – hidden in an unnamed tree: a mystery that throttled the branches with its scythe-shaped claws. It was an owl, asking its infamous question, its voice bouncing against the walls of the sky, so that I couldn't identify its location, no matter how intently I listened.
The voice had no words, but it was eloquent. It was velvety and dark. It spoke of forests, snow and stars united in a chilly society, a population of shadows. It spoke of skies the color of nectar and beneath them the terrified residents – squirrels, mice, rabbits – all cursed with a delectable flesh.
The voice spoke of deserted fields twisting in the wind, of silent air breathing sharply through its wings. The voice was cold and melting – a gentle mystery, a yearning hunter.
I never found the source of that voice. But there were other things. I had discovered secrets and visions…the vast landscape of stories that lay beyond its lost, animal aria.