Obscure Knowledge

an owl fluttered from its perch on an ancient, gnarled pine. the ruffling beat of its feathers - the only sound resonating through the snow covered pine needles and icicle laced tree trunks. its amber moon glow  eyes brightly contrasting its snowy outgrowth. A whistle pierced the air and the sound of hooves could be heard in the distance, muffled by the new layer of powdery snow. A magnificant chesnut horse came into view trotting up the road, holding his neck gracefully high. He didn't seem to notice the large accumulation of snow that his thick legs were so easily plowing through. Atop him sat a  beautiful fair-skinned woman. Her eyes seemed so alive. So full of life and promise. Mystery envolped her proud stature. She had a cascade of long, red hair. She stood out from the frozen, white world as an emerald would set in the pristine glow of a moonstone. The owl landed on her outstretched arm and she whispered to it. Telling it of knowledge and of the patient countenance it should wear. And for it, he was closer to her mind. The woman let the owl fly and as she slowly plodded away again, the owl stared on the branch after her, pondering the meaning of her words. Wondering where the part of his mind she'd opened up had been before now. He wondered howhe'd never seen the answers to the secrets he sought. ... how he had lived without his imagination before. With a great feat of strength, he grasped the pommel of the emerald encrusted great sword from the high-up trunk of the ancient tree with his powerful talons. He glided towards the figure slowly disappearing in the distance. He soared in front of the horse and dropped the sword, quietly landing in the snow next to it. He stared at her, his amber eyes spoke of thanks and respect. She dismounted, took up the sword, and put it in its ancient sheath that was wating for it at her side. She watched him soar off again, nimbly weaving between the ancient pines and smiled to herself. he would be back again. her companion - her friend. Written April 20th, 2002 © on Apr 20 2002 06:39 AM PST   10 • 0