Company for the Moon

Chapter One

The Owl

As the valley slept, the great horned owl flew silently through the predawn sky. Little did he know that before the next dawn he would make a difference in the lives of two other creatures—a difference that would spread joy throughout the forest and beyond.

Nothing that moved through the dark landscape escaped his keen eyesight. Gliding effortlessly, he occasionally beat his large wings with short bursts of power that propelled him forward. His wings were designed to be silent as he flew so he would be undetectable to the creatures who crept at night and to the ones who scurried through the dry underbrush. The owl wondered if the tiny field mouse darting among the thorn bushes below knew how lucky he was that this old bird was full after a long night of hunting.

His golden eyes reflected the fading light of the retiring moon.  The owl’s ears beneath the pointed feathers atop his head, though tucked back in flight, could still hear sounds from throughout the entire valley—even the rustling of the swaying pine branches in the trees below. The changing breeze rippled his brown and black feathers to reveal his downy white coat, the underside of which matched the collar of white feathers under his face.

The owl banked and soared down to fly right above the spray of the river that traveled through the valley. The rushing water sparkled in the moonlight as it rippled over the bed of river stones. He followed the river as it snaked through the valley between the hills and the great mountain range.

Suddenly, a strong updraft arose, seeming to hold him still in midair. The owl so enjoyed the games the wind played with him! For a moment, he hovered over the surface of the water, then flapped his wings and broke the wind’s grasp.  

 The owl’s panoramic view of the forest and wild-growing fields changed as he crossed high over the farmlands. The forests were wild, thick, and beautifully unconstrained compared to the manicured rows now below him. 

Crossing over the fence that seemed to go on forever in either direction, the owl saw what was left of a crumbling, ancient stone wall that used to separate these lands long ago. The heavy stones painfully carried from the riverbed and meticulously placed atop each other centuries ago now lay strewn about, some only slightly visible in the overgrown grass, while others were coated with a thick blanket of moss.

The men who have worked this land for generations, the owl thought, left their marks on it, a tribute to lives well spent on land they loved and cared for.  

The fruit trees that grew along a slope on one side of the property appeared to rise and fall beneath the owl-like waves on the hilly terrain.  The dozens and dozens of trees were old, their branches twisted and weathered by the seasons.   Their branches bobbed in the wind, loaded down by bright red apples.  Stacked buckets and worn ladders lay neatly between the rows of trees in anticipation of the coming harvest. 

The green pastures that spread out ahead of him were dotted by the sheep resting there, scattered white heaps in the early morning hours. As he soared above them, they slept peacefully, their white wool glistening with dew in the fading moonlight.  

Past the sheep’s field, the owl could see the large barn looming in the distance.  The owl first made quick work of flying over the hundreds of neatly toiled rows of vegetables that preceded it.  Having made the same trip every evening, the owl was amazed how quickly the vegetables had grown.  It seemed to him it was only yesterday he was passing over freshly tilled, rich soil. 

Sailing over the barn, the owl saw a light flickering from inside, shining out from the large, open barn doors.  Milking the cows marked the beginning of the day for the family who called this farm their own—and the conclusion of mine, he thought. 

The owl flew silently, protected from view by the shadows of the trees that lined the road that led to the old farmhouse. He enjoyed swooping down just feet from the ground to fly ever so close to the darkened front porch, just close enough to frustrate the cat who slept there.  

Rising again, he flew over the little gated flower garden, which always made him smile.  All the other plants and trees that grew on the farm had a purpose, he thought, food for the farmers and the livestock.  These flowers, however, were planted and carefully tended to serve no value except for their beauty. 

As he sailed toward home, a nest long deserted by the hawk that had created it, the sun emerged over the mountaintop far in the distance behind him.  The owl playfully raced the sun’s beams as they shot across the once-dark landscape to awaken all the brilliant colors of the flowers, grasses, and trees below.

This has been a good night, he thought.

As he approached his nest, he pitched his body upright to expose the large talons on his thick, tufted feet. Wings opened wide, he captured the air to slow his approach. As the owl grasped the pine branch, his wings immediately closed in snugly around him. He gave a small shudder and ruffled his feathers as if to shake off the remains of the evening. Now was his time to rest.

He offered a silent prayer of gratitude to God: Thank you for the beauty of all you have made. Thank you for the sun, and thank you for the moon; thank you for all creatures, both great and small.

The owl closed his eyes as the sun fully cleared the mountaintop. Sleep, however, had no time to envelop the owl, as a ruckus erupted from the old farmhouse only yards from his nest, high in the pine tree.

He squinted and tried to focus his eyes in the bright morning light. He recognized the voice of the young farmer’s daughter. The owl delighted in observing this precious girl, as she was unique from the other children, though she did not yet seem to realize it.

Sure as rain, he heard her bounding through the house as she headed for her favorite place: the outdoors.