The Owl and the Iris

There once was an owl, wise and majestic. With his dark, spotted body he would spend his time residing over the wild fields. Perched atop a branch, a king in his own right, he would look upon the splendor of the wild fields. At night, he would soar high above enjoying the fresh winds in his feathers and the freedom of his domain.

Shining violet caught his eye on this day. When was the last time I saw a color so brilliantly? Owl was so surprised and curious by this, he swooped down just as the sun began peeking over the horizon.

Iris, the only of her kind in this part of the wild fields, saw Owl’s approach. The sun was shining, creating a glow that radiated from Owl. How magnificent is that. Her dew drops had not even dried or dropped yet.

Owl swooped in and floated to perch atop a rock, right next to Iris. He inclined his head, large eyes blinking once. Twice. As if to say, “What a beautiful sight.” Then he swiveled his head to the horizon, and together they watched the sunrise.

Several mornings Iris would enjoy the company of Owl. Though they could not speak, they could understand each other perfectly well. Communication in which no words were needed.

Owl would remain perched on his branch overlooking the wild fields for his days, and for hid nights he would fly. But sunrise. That would always be spent beside Iris. She was such a stunning violet, glowing from the early morning rays.

Iris would enjoy her days, visiting with the bees and dancing in the wind, she would enjoy the comfort of nights when her petals filled with dew drops. But every sunrise she would anticipate Owl’s arrival.

An odd pair but fitting. Both wise. Where one was dark, the other was bright. They thought they fit quite well.

And so the days went. Sunrise after sunrise, the Owl and the Iris spent precious minutes together. Owl would flap his wings, blink his eyes, and swivel his head. Iris would dance in the wind, fluttering her petals in response.

Owl had never remembered feeling so happy. Iris never knew her short life could offer so much excitement.

As spring melted into summer, the wild fields became vibrant with life and colors. Owl was always pleased with the abundance of his kingdom. And still the sunrise was saved for his Iris.

As summer reached its peak, Iris relished the warmth on her petals. Though she did not know, Owl would sometimes watch her even from his perch. And though he flies at night, he has not gone far from her little space since her violet petals shined before him.

As summer faded to fall, Owl began to notice the signs of the wild fields falling into slumber. Leaves fell from their trees, preservation kicking into all life in the wild fields. Grass started to fade to duller shades. As the nights became colder, Owl knew the slumber would not be far behind. Still, he saw his Iris every sunrise.

As the days turned frigid and the nights turned frosty, Iris knew she would not have long left. Preservation would kick in and her bloom would fall so another could appear. Though she did not want to leave Owl. And even though the wild fields were a dull image of what they had been at the peak of the summer, Iris kept her petals vibrant and uplifted.

Owl knew Iris was pretending for as long as she could. He is aware of all in his kingdom. For her, he would be strong. Every sunrise, he sat on that rock and shook his wings, cooed at his Iris.

Winter was fast approaching, it wouldn’t be long now. Iris knew as much, so did Owl. On the coldest night since fall began its descent, Owl surprised his Iris with a final visit.

Iris was slouched over, beginning to wilt in the harsh cold. Owl gave her one long blink, “You are not well, Iris.” And she slouched further. Her once glowing petals, a muddle of what they were.

Owl knew what he had to do, and he cooed softly at Iris. She seemed to perk up ever so slightly, a rogue drop of water sliding off her petal as if she was crying for her Owl.

Quick as can be, Owl angled himself at Iris. With swift motions, he plucked her bloom right off. He released a cry into the night, for the slumbering wild fields to hear. He did not fly back to his perch that night.

Winter came and Owl cannot remember the last time he looked at his wild fields with so much sadness. This is nothing new. The slumber comes every year. It is necessary. Yet, for the first time, Owl wished it wasn’t. He tucked into himself atop his perch and did not fly for many days.

Owl went about his necessities with a rather dull ambition. No more did he see the glowing violet amongst the ramble of his wild fields. No more did he sit atop that rock and bask in the sunrise. No more did he see his Iris.

Winter flowed into spring. Snow and ice melted and fed the wild fields. And on the first warm day, saturation began to bless his wild fields once again. That night he took the skies and hooted for his wild fields to bloom and again overfill with life. Every sunrise, he would return to his perch and rest.

But just before summer settled in, Owl caught sight of a beautiful violet. Just before the sun rose over the horizon, shaking in the wind, beckoning him to return. When was the last time I saw a color so brilliantly? He thought.

Iris saw Owl approaching, basked in the glow from the sunrise. How magnificent is that? And as Owl settled atop a rock beside her, she decided her short life would be full of excitement.