Two big orbs glow in the dark. A flutter of wings pans the forest, but the eyes remain. An owl hoots lowly, perched in its treetop, unafraid, scanning the ground for mice in its night vision. An wise, unassuming predator that unsheathes its claws for its dinner. Beady-eyed vermin are toast, as the lift up their heads and wiggle their whiskers; It is too late. A shard of moonlight allows a better glimpse of the owl – It is snowy white, flecked with grey. There is fresh snowfall on the ground and I have done my best to remain stock-still, my footprints likely covered over. How will I find my way back? The owl takes its wrought-iron, copper beak, lifting its wing to gnaw at an itch. Then it hears something. Jolting up quickly, it begins to turn its head all the way around, scanning its perimeter. What fresh meat has cross Nature’s security threshold tonight? Suddenly, wings expand with intention and the owl flaps finding a wind current and gliding elegantly to find it’s prey. I, alone in the cold, have gone numb and now have nothing else to look at but darkness.