The Crow and the Owl

It is dusk. The final, dimmest moments of twilight. A crow and an owl are perched on a tree, an unlikely pair. The tree has been dead for seven years, maybe eight. No one could say exactly when the final leaf turned and fell. It stood on the edge of the forest, the bark peeling away in strips, gray and like paper, exposing the bare wood underneath. The trunk of the tree leans slightly, it always has. Now it leans a little bit more in its age, though it never comes close to falling. The roots hold it up. They go deeper in the soil than seem reasonable for a tree that size, sprawling out in every direction as if they were holding onto something more than just earth. You can see some of them near the base, thick and gnarled, coming up through the ground and diving back under, gripping the hillside the tree stands on without care that there was nothing left to feed. The wood above would have rotted by now, the branches brittle, but the roots hadn't gotten the message yet. Or maybe they had, but refused to listen.

Every evening as the sunset turns to dusk, they both come to this tree. The owl always arrives first, gliding in silently from the forest once the shadows had thickened. The tree offered everything it needed: solitude, clarity, stillness. The owl could watch the night life of the meadow neighboring the forest come alive from here. The owl had chosen this tree long before the crow ever knew about it, back when the tree still had a few obstinate leaves clinging to the uppermost branches. The crow came later, dropping down from its route above the meadow. At first, this tree was just an opportunity to rest before flying back to its roost. But then it kept coming back. Not out of habit, really, but because it was curious about the owl. And so for a few minutes every night, before the owl began its hunt and the crow returned to its nest, they were both there. Separated only by a few feet of dead branches, meeting without ever having arranged to meet. The owl perched silently, patient and present. The crow, restless and deliberately casual, constantly shifted across the branches, as if it was always ready to take off. Like every other time, the crow was the first to break the silence.

"The sky feels deeper now. Did you know that? In the day, it's just a flat sheet of blue. You can't look past it."

"I know," replies the owl.

"Of course you do. You see it every night. I just meant to say it's a whole different world for you that I never get to see."

"You're seeing it now."

The crow shifts on the branch. "For how long though, ten minutes, fifteen? You have to leave eventually."

"So do you," says the owl.

"Exactly. That's what I'm saying. We always both have to leave."

"Yes, and we always come back."

The crow looked out at the meadow. "That's not the same as staying."

"No one stays anywhere. Everything moves."

"You know what I mean."

"I do."

"Then why are you making this so difficult?" asks the crow.

"What do you mean? I'm not doing anything. I'm sitting on my branch how I always do."

The crow is visibly frustrated. "This was supposed to be easier."

"What was?"

"Stopping. Not coming here anymore. You know, I decided a few days ago I wasn't going to come back."

"I wasn't sure I wanted to come back either."

The crow turns to look at the owl, now confused. "But you did."

The owl looks back at the crow. "So did you."

The crow was silent for a long time, for the first time ever in their conversations. The stars, one by one, began peeking out of the sky.

"It's getting dark," the crow says finally.

The owl doesn't answer right away. "It always does."

So, the crow takes off from its branch in search of its nest before the shadows get too dark. The owl remains for just a moment longer before it begins its hunt, gliding into the darkness it knows so well.