Owl

An independent owl sits alone and rigid with the resolve of a predator. It totters precariously atop the branch at which its spindly feet stand. It looks down at the vast and vegetated landscape, scans the murky abyss below the branch. Slowly it stretches its wings and reveals the majesty of its stature as if it were a God of the land below and beyond. It rises, higher and higher, the air dispels around it. In one long swoop it closes its wings and falls into that blanket called night.