THE OWL-PEN
I brought to the fort a few
cherished items : thoughts in
a wreath, like memory hanging
beribboned and joyful. Everyone
took their turn singing - even the
impish busker, having just landed
there for a spell. I imagined water,
and a lake along some shoreline so
magically becalmed. As darkness
neared, I saw the owl stir - a doubtful
movement in a darkening air. Rustle,
head-turn, and an odd bird-noise so
unlike any other. This was the distant
bric-a-brac of some other land, a faraway
place now guarded by this fort and these
people within. I sensed a new place
one to which I had not been before.
I brought to the fort a few
cherished items : thoughts in
a wreath, like memory hanging
beribboned and joyful. Everyone
took their turn singing - even the
impish busker, having just landed
there for a spell. I imagined water,
and a lake along some shoreline so
magically becalmed. As darkness
neared, I saw the owl stir - a doubtful
movement in a darkening air. Rustle,
head-turn, and an odd bird-noise so
unlike any other. This was the distant
bric-a-brac of some other land, a faraway
place now guarded by this fort and these
people within. I sensed a new place
one to which I had not been before.
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