Owls Don't Speak

On a high branch of a tall tree at the edge of the hay meadow, I saw an owl. He sat perfectly still, large yellow eyes scanning the horizon and waiting for darkness. He looked very old and very wise as I thought all owls should and I expected him to take wing as I got closer but he held his ground, measuring the threat and dismissing it. The soon to be night breeze ruffled his feathers slightly and he spoke in a voice that sounded like James Earl Jones. My name is Geoffrey, he announced, and I have a message for you. Worry is not preparation. He blinked and hooted softly at me then spread his wings against the darkening sky. Goodbye, he said calmly and lifted off gracefully. The last I saw of him was his silhouette high in the clouds over the hay meadow and diving toward earth and the nearby cornfield at dizzying speed. That was when I woke up.

I have very few lucid dreams and even fewer ones that make sense - they routinely fade to nothingness in the few sleepy seconds after I wake and are gone like echos - I can almost but not quite recall them, like a taste that you know you recognize but can't name. They play at the very edges of my memory but then disappear completely without my even being aware of it happening. Geoffrey the Owl was the exception, staying with me vividly and at length and finally becoming a memory. I began to be fairly sure that it had actually happened and had to remind myself that in the real world, owls don't speak much less give advice. But if they did, I would hope they would all be as wise as my dream owl.

Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom but to scar tissue and callouses.
Wallace Stegner.