A Worry In the Treetops

A mottled feather glides, then pirouettes to the forest floor. Above me a deeply depressed owl plucks at its plumage. Birds of prey are too intelligent their eyes swivel on lit-up neurons. Sometimes it all gets too much, what with the constant hunting, surviving, keeping warm enough to kill and avoid being killed, raising ungrateful owlets. I pick up the lovely feather stick it in the hatband of my fedora walk on whistling light-heartedly. The owl watches me strolling away with a very peeved owlish glare.