The White Owl.

Deep in a midnight forest paces a white owl. She hops from branch to branch, thinking all the while. There is a field mouse braiding blades of grass together in a clearing not far from here. She knows this mouse. So close, so accessible...


The field mouse hasn't done any wrong to her directly, of course. It's gnawed on the roots at the base of the tree in which the owl has built her nest. When strong winds blow, things are uneasy. It's always in the back of her mind. Of all their minds. This, she knows.


How easy it would be to swoop down, snatch up the problematic rodent and rip it to shreds with her majestic bill. How wonderful. But. Would it really solve her problem? Would it repair the shredded roots?


The owl takes off from the branch, silent silvery feathers turning her into a whisp of a being. Talons unfurl and muscles tighten in ecstacy of the hunt...



But clawtips barely brush fur. At the last second, she raises her feet, tucking them into the down of her underbelly as she banks sharply to the right and ascends into the branches again. Yellow eyes stare down at the field mouse, panicked but still alive.


It is not the owl's place to bring justice to the world this way. Feathers bristle anxiously on her neck. She hoots lowly. She'll fix her nest and forget about the mouse. Forget.



And so she takes off into the night.