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Mother 


The crisp white winter of her feather clings as a bodily shield, dissolving into the cool of the arctic. Her flat, square of a head and buried neck motion in all four directions as her body remains still. Her large binoculars of flaming yellow and her black dot of a pupil pierce into the distance. Her startling stare is one to be feared.  Her sharp and curved polished onyx bill drills prey into submission and slices through their flesh. Her muscular feet carry the hunt too massive for her beak to bear.  Her wings spread five feet long, her body two.

 The brisk gust weighs down the silvery owlets and shakes them into a messy fuzz. Their breaths and chirps slowly decline. The snow owl towering over her starved young leaves the nest. She ascends, disappearing into the distance. She lands onto a tree and observes her surroundings.  

A drove of plump hares gather to feed on grass. They are as white and smooth as cotton in the winter, and bluish-grey in the spring. Their vertical and beady -almond-like eyes liken them to squirrels. Their pointy vertical ears appear on alert. Their small oval heads top their invisible necks. Their long legs are fit for a chase. Their lamb-like being is not without defense. They can run up to forty miles per hour. They weigh between six to fifteen pounds. They scatter into a rumbling storm upon notice of her wings. The mother owl shadows over the hare.  The hare is held from the neck .

The hare appears to be more than twice her body weight.  Her heart seems to be pumping out of her chest. She brings all she can bare. Upon her arrival, the owlets appear to be in two different worlds. The mother owl draws in the kill and looks all around, her eyes filled with panic. Her appetite seems to have disappeared. The survived owlet feeds rapidly.
 
 


Marckincia Jean
Narrative 
06/25/19
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