The forest falls silent as the snowflakes flutter downward. The owl’s wings are muffled beneath the crush of ice crystals stacking mindlessly atop each other, heedless of their collective weight. A branch breaks, a limb is lost. The gnome things hunker down, stuffing their ears with moss against the deafening crash of kamikaze flakes.

I hear nothing and slumber on.

A stoat races across the fallen branch. The owl stretches out her clutching talons as her silent wings beat on. The gnome things cringe as the stoat’s cry penetrates the moss.

I sleep on, mindless in the silence of the snow.

This post was written in response to the Daily Post’s photo challenge “silence”

forest games


The raccoon nestled into the tree and began to feel sleepy. “Stay awake this time,” he told himself. He dug his claws into the bark and sniffed at the refreshing moss, but it did little good. His eyelids began to droop.

When he reopened his eyes the day had flown and night had fallen. An owl perched across the tree hooted at him. “Fell asleep again, didn’t you?”

The raccoon blushed beneath his mask. “Yeah.”

“Tsk tsk. You’re either the best or the worst hide-and-seek player in the forest,” said the owl, and flew off after a mouse.

not so lonely, after all


When vines run out of room, they start reaching for the sky. It’s said to be lonely up there, but no one ever told a tree as it stretched for the sun, or a bird as it soared in the freedom of almost-endless space. I think, sometimes, these things are said to keep us from the disappointment of falling short of stars when we are reaching for the moon. Or, perhaps, some sinister emotional gravity to keep us weighed down on the ground and not obstructing someone else’s view. But who am I to say, after all, for I am just an owl, waiting for the night to fall to soar up in the sky and dive down for a mouse.