The Raven And The Old White Barn Owl

Even an old owl can be powerful.

“Hoooo.... Hooo... Hoo.. Ho.”

The raven heard the old feathery barn owl hooting and snoring, awoken in the early morning light by the noisy but gentle cooing.

He cawed to the ethereally plumed animal as if to say “shush, you’re disturbing my beauty sleep.”

The owl, having just fallen asleep, simply continued its loud snoring. “She'll keep me up late, but I couldn’t ask for a better roommate,” the raven thought to himself, “after all, she does bring in the food like oats and nuts and my favorite summer sun berries.” It was indeed a sunny barn home for the two birds. They would often chase and watch the fireflies in the early evening, occasionally catching one for dinner.

At once the barn doors creaked open, revealing the bright warmth of the summer sun, along with the master of the house, the farmer and his two daughters, giggling and playing while he hauled hay through the doors to give to his three cows, mooing, they started nuzzling deeply into the metal hay cage trough, and snorting as they ate their fill, hungry after their sleep. The sunlight being bright enough to blind the raven and his friend, they blinked and sneezed with the musty air filled with dew of the morning. Time was always a fickle type of beast, always flittering like a hummingbird, never quite settling and always moving with fluidity that they could not catch up.

The owl had built a large nest in the west corner and it was a shimmering gossamer that often glistening with white feathers. The raven himself had often seen it with wonder. He also found there were a great many female and male ravens around the farm as well, and he was young enough to seek a mate for young ones of his own.

The raven was now building a nest of his own in the far corner the owl did not use, and as he sat on the barn floor he kept his eyes on the loose falling hay from the mouths of the cows. The cows for their part, stayed quiet most of the day, other than the occasional stomping and stumbling as they were cleaned and fed by either the farmer or the farmhands.

Grabbing a tuft of hay in his beak, the raven flew swiftly to the waiting nest, cawing to the owl snarkily “have a nice rest and keep the snoring down!”

He yelled at the still snoring bird, poking the owl with his beak as he flew past. The old owl had lost a few feathers during the night, and adding this one feather to the tuft, the raven smoothly tucked the gossamer white feather into his nest. “Sentimentality,” he thought.

The raven was suddenly caught in a whirlwind, feathers and bits of hay and leaves blowing about the whole barn. “Wake up, old girl!” He cawed loudly, this happened every now and then when she was between sleep and awake, an old and experienced familiar animal to a peculiar wizard, she often let loose a magic of her own. The raven had no idea how she came to be in this barn and at this farm, but he knew she was a special friend to have.

The owl for her part woke groggily and stared into space for a few seconds. As she fell back to sleep, the wind around the raven slowly died down, depositing him and the hay and feather near his nest. The owl hooting once before going back to sweet dreams of mice and wisest men than ravens and farmers, asleep to the world, yet awake to the magic of dreams of philosophers and owls and a potter throwing a piece of clay on a wheel, surrounded by three little children secretly floating his supplies.