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12-23-2012, 02:06 AM
Owl.
That’s what they called her back home. Owl. It wasn’t due to her quiet nature, she was neither outspoken nor silent in a group. It wasn’t due to her coloring, though the tawny, sandy golden-brown nature of her coat and mane reflected that of a barn owl. Instead it was due to quite an odd, abstract reason—her eyes. Hazel in color with a dark rim of some indiscernible hue, they were large, perfectly spherical, and framed by black lashes that seemed almost wastefully pantomime when taken into account with the relative plainness of the rest of her. She often wondered if she saw the world differently than the others with their narrow eyes and equally narrow minds; Owl always seemed to be freer of spirit and soul. At heart, she was a drifter, wandering through life but never quite participating fully: a modern day hippie with indie folk songs in her head and dulcet tones in her voice. Thus with her own four legs, a song, some worldly advice and not much else, she arrived in the Threshold.
The scenery was decent, Owl had to admit. Pines towered over her small fragility, making her feel wonderfully small and insignificant. The air was fresh and clean and smelled of spring. Mountains towered in the distance, Owl could barely make them out from behind the tree line. The young mare walked along the well trodden path laid out in front of her—divine providence if there ever was such a thing—determined to follow it to its completion. She walked quietly but with purpose, making no effort to neither disguise her presence nor alert the masses to it. The natural rhythm of this place reminded her of home. The songbirds sung their cheerful salutes to the midday sun, the pine needles rustled in the warm breeze, the sun smiled down upon the patches of land not shrouded by the puffy clouds rolling above. Owl smiled, her large eyes taking in all that nature was giving her and collecting it in her heart, condensing it into song.
“It’s a long road to wisdom, but it’s a short road to being ignored. Be in my eyes, be in my heart…”
Owl could never feel as joyous as when she was singing and one with the wilderness, singing its song like the bird of her namesake.
That’s what they called her back home. Owl. It wasn’t due to her quiet nature, she was neither outspoken nor silent in a group. It wasn’t due to her coloring, though the tawny, sandy golden-brown nature of her coat and mane reflected that of a barn owl. Instead it was due to quite an odd, abstract reason—her eyes. Hazel in color with a dark rim of some indiscernible hue, they were large, perfectly spherical, and framed by black lashes that seemed almost wastefully pantomime when taken into account with the relative plainness of the rest of her. She often wondered if she saw the world differently than the others with their narrow eyes and equally narrow minds; Owl always seemed to be freer of spirit and soul. At heart, she was a drifter, wandering through life but never quite participating fully: a modern day hippie with indie folk songs in her head and dulcet tones in her voice. Thus with her own four legs, a song, some worldly advice and not much else, she arrived in the Threshold.
The scenery was decent, Owl had to admit. Pines towered over her small fragility, making her feel wonderfully small and insignificant. The air was fresh and clean and smelled of spring. Mountains towered in the distance, Owl could barely make them out from behind the tree line. The young mare walked along the well trodden path laid out in front of her—divine providence if there ever was such a thing—determined to follow it to its completion. She walked quietly but with purpose, making no effort to neither disguise her presence nor alert the masses to it. The natural rhythm of this place reminded her of home. The songbirds sung their cheerful salutes to the midday sun, the pine needles rustled in the warm breeze, the sun smiled down upon the patches of land not shrouded by the puffy clouds rolling above. Owl smiled, her large eyes taking in all that nature was giving her and collecting it in her heart, condensing it into song.
“It’s a long road to wisdom, but it’s a short road to being ignored. Be in my eyes, be in my heart…”
Owl could never feel as joyous as when she was singing and one with the wilderness, singing its song like the bird of her namesake.
