A good sky for me to get ready for my work
I kill things. I kill little birds sometimes, and other small furry mammals. I rip them apart with my talons and devour their still warm flesh. I enjoy it. It makes me content. Does that make me a bad owl or a good owl? Oh... "Nice owl" you go... admiring my soft feathers, but deep inside my heart is hard, because it has to be. And look at this:
Is it lovely? Nature? Lovely? Really? Or is it the desperate hard and harsh and often nightmare battleground of creatures killing creatures killing creatures? And humans? Ah... they burned three women and a man in this wood you know, and not even for food. Humans... They are the real monsters of the land... How many humans have been killed by other humans this fine May day? Enough, and cruelly enough, to make my evening's work seem like swift mercy by comparison.
I know what I am, and I am wise enough to live with it. Do you all know what you are, and what is done in your name? Really? Can you live with what you really are? And can you look at wider reality in the eye and live with it? Or must you invent soft fluffy dreamy lands of fantasy and imagination, and lovely views and cuddly toys, to make life tolerable in this wild hard place? And oh... your invented reasons to carry on... while I have just my killing, and my killing, then my death. For I am wise.
And now, while thanking the Devilish Demon Don for this one opportunity to speak, I am off to kill. This lovely bird? Look at me, and instead of just my fluffy beauty, try to see the truth.The truth about everything, just once.
And give thanks that I am not big enough to swoop on you and rip you apart.