The Wise Ol' Owl
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Most eyes follow motion. Only a few know where to look when nothing moves. The owl was one of them.
It didn’t arrive with the morning birds, nor did it sing when the forest burst with opinions. It waited—high above the chatter, not hidden, just quiet—like the forest trusted it to see everything. Some say it was born with storm-colored eyes. Others say it appeared one dusk and never left.
Below, everything begged to be seen. Foxes strutted. Squirrels quarreled. Even the trees stretched louder.
But the owl listened—to the hush between gusts, to the silence beneath noise, to truths too patient for most ears. Nights passed. Leaves turned. The forest talked itself in circles.
Then, on a night when even the moon refused to blink, it happened. A star vanished. Not a flicker. Not a fade. It simply let go—like it knew. And the owl moved. Once. No flutter. No fuss. Just presence. And the air shifted, as if the forest itself took its first honest breath in years.
Something turned in that stillness. Not a storm. Not a roar. But something ancient and deep opened its eyes. The page turned. The noise hushed. And in the roots, something new stirred.
Because wisdom doesn’t chase attention—it anchors it. It doesn't cry out to be known. It waits, until knowing becomes unavoidable. The Wise Ol’ Owl wasn’t just watching. It was weighing. Gathering. Guarding the threshold between what was and what needed to begin.
And when it finally moved—that was enough.
God bless.
—Asher Daniel Grand