Blue Ridge Nights

Above the Blue Ridge hills flights of stealth owl glide in from the moon. Strange how a jungle is never quiet but these Tennessee woods sleepwalk along moccasin paths watched over by the velvet foliage of dreaming tree. Owls are the true eagles here, they hunt the thriving flesh and distain all that no longer trembles. They do not scavenge but scatter prey before them hunting the huntable on sonic waves. Sometimes on a summer night I leave a cabin to walk among the owls and nightjars. To sit silently listening to the rustle and scurry of a timid pulse and the silent wings of its pursuer. Occasionally a deer is startled by an incautious movement sending it crashing through the dark brush. I do not carry a gun here, but if I did I would never break the silence of these woods for the voices of the dead and the living sing in the air as softly as stars do when reflected in the eyes of hunting owls.