On cold and weary mornings, when the sun's orange glow is cast,
Over the frosted fields of corn, a beauty that will not last,
There, perched upon the dark and twisted branches of the oak,
A wise, old owl sits perfectly still, he who could not be provoked,
His distant glare, a constant stare, his brow furrowed in thought,
His wings, for he would not show, tucked away and taut,
"Oh wise old owl, please do tell, why you sit upon that tree?
Why not explore, travel some more, you have the wings to flee."
But silence as he did not speak, murmur not a word,
As the oak it heaved, under the weight of the silence from the bird,
Instead that glare I did recieve, once resting on the relentless sea,
He now averted from the murky waters, and cast it upon me,
To my surprise he then spoke aloud, and offered but a suggestion,
"My friend, you should not ask me this,
but ask yourself that question."
~Eva Rosehill