@v@

Sometimes they stare outside of the box with these amazingly clear, intense eyes. They are seeing things so far away. They are waiting for mother to return with food. They are hungry little things. Crowded and ugly, brave, and pitiful. All wobbly legs and dander, small warm heartbeats under a patchy fur breast – you cannot deceive them, but they can, and do, deceive themselves. The world in the box is always the same, with subtle nuance: someone is getting bigger, someone else is shrinking. They huddle, and fight, and shine with survival. Soon everything will change. The box will cease to house their being; they will thrill in the weight and lightness of the whole universe around them. Feathers in flight, fury and freedom.

Hang in there, owlets. The world is yours, and mine. i am always with you; you are always with me.