The Little Owl and the Dark

High in the old pine tree, a little owl sat close to her mother. The night was soft. The night was new.

"I want to fly," said the little owl. Her voice was small. "But the dark is so big."

Her mother tucked a wing around her. "The dark is big," she said. "And you are brave. Both can be true."

Below the branch, the world was dim and quiet. The little owl looked down. Her small heart went thump, thump, thump.

"I feel it here," she said, touching her fluffy chest.

"That is your brave feeling waking up," said her mother. "Let it come."

So the little owl opened her wings. Soft and wide. Soft and wide.

She hopped to the edge.

The dark was big. And she was brave. Both were true.

She leaned. She lifted. And then —

she was flying.

The air held her up, cool and kind. The dark rushed past, gentle as a river. And it was not scary at all. It was full of moon.

Down below, the trees waved hello. A little pond shone silver. A mouse whispered, "Good evening," and hurried home.

"I am flying in the dark," said the little owl. "The dark is friendly."

She turned. She curved. She floated back to the old pine tree, where her mother waited on the branch.

"I did it," said the little owl, very quiet. "I flew."

"You did," said her mother. "And the dark was here the whole time, holding you."

The little owl folded her wings. Soft and warm. Soft and warm. She leaned into her mother's feathers.

The night was big. She was brave. And now she was tired, in the good sleepy way.

Warm wing over her. Slow breath beneath her. The dark was soft, and the dark was kind, and the little owl was home.