The owl’s tale went something like this.
They came last. The big people observed all that had gone before: animals; trees; flowers, beauty; life, then tore it to pieces. Their world is one of the unnatural, the abnormal, the necessity to decline, death. They strive for perfection, for answers to unanswerable questions and ever will. They have forgotten the one truth: nature is in all of us. The world of the big people is no place for little ones like you. Go home to your willow and your wood and those who weep for your return even now, Tristan and Tristania. Go home.
We hadn’t told him our names; the owl was just wise. He offered us a wing upon which we climbed. There, beneath a hunter’s moon, we departed in a waft of silent feathers and tears for what we’d imagined wonderful. We left without them even knowing we’d been.
To Be Continued…