Perched upon a thin branch flailing in the wind, the owl cried out into the night, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?" Only the still, dead night and the rustling of branches and drying leaves responded.

I tampered with my oil lamp and let the flame grow tall, casting shadows that played hide and seek on trees. Shadows bounced off of trunks, flickered to the branches, and waned off on the broad, saw toothed leaves.

The owl's cry grew into the night, screeching to the stars, to the trees, to anyone that was willing to listen. "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?" His shrill grew in momentum, a harsh song in three tones, each one climbing the scales. The oil lamp hissed, "I do."

Fumbling with the lamp, I beckoned the light to grow dim again as I sat there, listening to the wind rustle between his fine, feathered wings tightly tucked into his breast. His head spun around again and again and he was silent. And I was silent. The whole word was silent, just waiting until he would get up and fly away.

But he didn't. Each time he cried I threw the flame up and watched the bright light illuminate the unknown that couldn't be known except to the owl. He knew why he was crying. Only he knew.