I’ve always wondered why owls sing the way they do, their hoot hoots always scared little Anne where she would then throw a fit, awakening our very groggy parents. They hate owls. I’ve always loved them, the way their hoots would break through the blistering silence of the night, providing a deep sense of solace. In my school days I would often hear them, a coffee in hand, a thought in mind, no one around. It seemed my only comfort was but a mere animal. It’s funny, my sense of comfort would rely on a tiny illusive animal, one I could never see nor touch, but only hear in the distance. In a sense, that’s life, small, illusive, something you could never touch nor predict, just feel the faint presence of lingering somewhere in the distance. So, whenever I feel the weight of life, I listen for the sound of an owl, a reminder, that despite the cumbersome nature of life there’s always something waiting for me, a little owl, waiting to be heard but never seen, shrouded by the cloak of the darkness.