This little group of owls is inclined to think that nightfall is a beautiful thing. They are not categorically opposed to the daytime, mind you, but it's the night and the moon and the fogs and the stars that really make 'em curious to go out a-soaring, when so many other creatures are a-sleeping. They are encouraged to find that certain human beings also enjoy the night... But they cannot understand those funny things the humans hold up to their eyes and point in these owls general direction... those two round black tubes stuck together, or sometimes the tapered long tubes set upon some sort of tripod of smooth sticks. If you know such human beings, they surely would like a copy of this small picture, to hang over their workbenches, right there next to that well-worn set of binoculars they keep suspended upon a nail for easy access. Yes, these fine souls need a little picture to keep 'em in owl company until the next expedition into the inky black night.
Other Things You Might Like to Know: The original artwork is watercolor and india ink | © 2017 Melinda Nettles | Designed and printed in Oregon, USA | Paper by Neenah and envelopes by Mohawk are minimum 30% Post-consumer recycled content and FSC® Certified
The Back Story:
“What do you think,” said Ignacio, who also was known as Owl Number One, to Pepe, who also was known as Owl Number Four, and who was the smallest of this little group, “about a foray out yonder to the edge of the Far Thicket?” Answered Pepe, fairly chirping in merriment, “Oh! Why yes! I do so think it would be splendid. Splendid! Splendid! Why, then we could come home and tell everyone about the moon, and the sounds of the forest at night.” There was a pause, and all heads turned toward Crispin, as if to say, “And you?” “I dunno,” hooted The Third Owl in reply, shifting slightly from foot to foot, “I dunno. I dunno. I dunno. Oh! I dunno.” Tuppins, Owl Number Two, as always, simply blinked her big eyes slowly, and did not utter a word.*
*Ever So Important Note: On any a fine morning, in the forward booth of the petite coffee house at the top of the town, and also on the sunniest benches at the leeward end of the park, and also again at the near-end of the long oaken counter of the worn pub near the produce market, sits in every town a motley gaggle of old friends. What glue of old adventures, you wonder, as you sit nearby with a warm mug in your hand, nibbling your favorite apple pastry, holds these souls together? What strings bind this long-standing conclave? How did such a group come to be? Who is the quiet one? Who is the leader? Who the real dominant force? Who? Who? Whooo...