The tawny owl, no less than any highly evolved and intelligent creature, has biological, aesthetic, and spiritual preferences that are not strictly based upon reason, or need, or feelings, or consciousness. Sometimes, it just be that way, homey
The tawny owl has always meshed well with electric green hummingbirds, chubby breasted swallows, placid pelicans, and those few enlightened red tailed hawks who know their place, and don’t try too hard to prove any silly points. He tolerates cantankerous blue jays, pushy crows, and wayward hermit warblers with deftness and aplomb. He has no particular problem, despite their many obvious shortcomings, with turkeys, geese, ducks, and even quail, who are so dumb they play follow the leader into traffic like humans and frequently get knocked down silly.
Humans, on the other hand…well, you know. It’s no accident that trouble follows so closely wherever they go.
Humans often shake heads, pull legs, bug eyes, emit foul odors where more enlightened animals don’t sweat it. They know not what they know, and not what they don’t, and are certain about it. They ask, “You got a fucking problem with that?”
I mean, like, who the fuck do you think you fucking are, or are you fucking with, anyway?
I said, “What can you say to that?”
The tawny owl said, “The more immediate question is, what can you do?”
I don’t say anything for a long time. That remained true even after I had something sort of to say. I’m sorry for that, sort of.
Then the tawny owl continued, “The only aspects of your culture that make sense to me are sculpture, painting, and music.”
I said, “I can see how you can see and say that.”
He said, “That’s not what I said. That’s what you say. Can you see the difference?”
“I can. I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Okay, maybe you’re right. But, what about fiction? Isn’t a good novel as good as a good painting?”
He said, “Not even you think so.”
The tawny owl was getting overheated in my opinion. It was hot and getting hotter. He had recently returned from Gilroy where he was bopping to a shit stomping zydeco band. From all I’ve learned in passing, it gets even hotter over there. It’s a lot closer to the dread desert, after all. To the next level even. I could see no way in which his glorious feathers would be a help to him in that area. Even his dazzling tail feathers when seen from the rear. I asked the tawny owl about it.
He said, “I’m cool.”
I said, “But, what do you think is going to happen when it gets too hot?”
He said, “I’ma still be cool.”
I said, “I guess I’ll be gone.”
He said, “An excellent guess.”
In quantifying his experience, the tawny owl has concluded, and consequently relayed the results to me on many occasions, that the most chronically frightened animals on the loose are rabbits and humans, the least aware are quail and humans, the dirtiest are raccoons and humans, the most lethal eagles and humans, and the most dangerous, by far, all alone, are humans.
He said, “Do you see the pattern?”
I said, “A pattern. I don’t know about the pattern.
Then I said, “Don’t look at me like that.”
He said, “Like what?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
He said, “That’s right.”
I said, “Which is?”
He said, “Do you ever listen to your self?”
I said, “That’s not as easy as you think while I’m still thinking.”
Then, despite the obvious distance between points high and low, up in the air and down in the dirt, modified by speculation, conjecture, and outright inanity, plus the equally obvious tendency to say too much when too little would do, I said, “Well, maybe so, but I don’t think we are really that far apart.”
Do you believe it’s best to let bygones be bygones?
What happens when your bygones come back to bite you on the ass?
COMING SOON: GET IT WHILE YOU CAN