The Little Owl and the Dark

High in the old oak tree, a little owl sat close to her mother. The evening was soft and blue. The leaves whispered, hush, hush, hush.

"It's time to fly," said Mother Owl, gentle and low. "Time to fly into the dark."

The little owl looked down. The dark was big. The dark was deep. Her small heart went thump, thump, thump.

"The dark is so dark," she said.

"I know," said Mother, soft and low. "I'm right here beside you."

She spread her wings, one and two. She felt the cool air under them. And then, with her mother close beside her, she stepped off the branch.

Whoosh.

Down she dipped, then up she rose. The dark wrapped round her like a blanket. And it was not so scary now.

The dark was soft. The dark was kind.

She saw the fireflies blinking gold, on and off, on and off, like tiny lamps saying hello. She heard the little frogs singing down below. She felt the warm night on her feathers.

"Mother," she whispered, "the dark has fireflies in it."

"Yes," said Mother, flying close. "The dark holds all the softest things."

Round the old oak they turned, slow and easy. The little owl's heart went soft now, gentle as the leaves. She had been afraid. And she had flown anyway.

The dark was quiet. The dark was warm.

They landed back upon their branch, wing to wing. The little owl folded her feathers close. She was tired in a happy way, the way you are after a brave thing.

"I flew in the dark," she said, very small.

"You did," said Mother, and tucked her near.

The fireflies blinked below, slow and gold. The frogs sang soft, and softer still. The old oak held them, warm and safe, in the quiet of the deep blue night.