The Owls

A prose poem inviting readers to pause for a moment of reflection within the embrace of the nocturnal world.

Under that huge velvet blanket of late summer sky tonight, everything’s so quiet. The moon’s hanging there like some old lantern, throwing its silver glow across the still lake below.

I spot two owls gliding by—dead silent. The way they cut through the darkness is exceptional. So graceful. They’re hunting, scanning for any little movement, listening for grass rustling or the tiny heartbeats of critters hiding in the night.

Those wide, knowing owl eyes. It’s like they’re living mirrors that hold all the forest’s secrets. The trees around them stand tall like they’ve been there forever, keeping watch over everything the night hides.

Then one of them calls out—this eerie sound that breaks the silence. One swoops down (an amazing hunter) while its buddy stays perched, alert, watching for anything the other might miss. They don’t need words between them. It’s deeper than that.

Every wingbeat takes them through patches of moonlight. These two night guardians make me want to stop and watch; they make me a witness to their hunt’s beauty and the simplicity of existence.

In this quiet hour, when everything seems to breathe more softly, these owls are the kings of everything they survey.

I walk away from the lake, night sounds still bouncing around me. Those owls stick with me like some treasured little secret I want to keep.

Back in bed, everything melts into darkness while sleep pulls me under—it feels like the gentlest hug.

Then the dreams come. Owls everywhere, eyes glowing with an ancient knowing. They tell me stories about moonlit forests and secret hidden trails. The way they communicate—not words exactly—more like leaf-rustling sounds that somehow make perfect sense. Every small hoot is like a promise of shared understanding, making us feel connected.

They take me through incredible woods where time stops. Their calls echo all around, carried by the wind. In that weird half-light world, I never feel alone. Something about their watchful eyes gives me a deep sense of comfort.

When morning finally breaks, when everything turns golden, I awake feeling lighter. My eyes wide open, ready for whatever the day brings. That nighttime magic still thrums inside me, reminding me that even when things get dark, there’s always something hopeful taking flight.

Author's Note

So, I have this thing with owls.

I find them captivating creatures, shrouded in mystery and weird superstition. It’s funny how many folks write them off as doom-and-gloom omens, probably because they’re out there hooting at midnight and giving people the creeps. Different cultures have this strange love-hate relationship with them, linking owls to everything from supreme wisdom to straight-up death. But I see them differently.

To me, owls are uplifting symbols. (That’s why I have at least three owl art prints and other owl knick-knacks in my home.) They’ve got this incredible resilience and adaptability that’s worth admiring.

These birds rule the night. They thrive when most everything else sleeps. The way they swoop through pitch-black forests without missing a beat? That’s a pretty powerful reminder that we can navigate our own dark times and still spot opportunities when life gets messy.

I love that, in so many traditions, owls are these watchful guardians. There’s something weirdly comforting about that—like having a wise old friend keeping an eye out for you during tough times. When everything feels uncertain, that protective owl energy reminds me I’m not alone in the chaos.

Some find owls unsettling, but to me, they symbolize hopeful guidance. Their resilience, wisdom, and protective nature remind me that even when life throws its worst, there’s always a way forward. Embracing that owl energy helps me face unknowns with a bit more courage and much less fear.

By the way, I have written about owls before:

• a poem in the NaPoWriMo 2025 challenge:

• and flash fiction in response to a

  Written Tales
  writing prompt:

Upcoming…

• A poem about bittersweet memories:

  Lavender Days, 12 July 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.