An owl wails. The quiet night listens. Ron sits under a still, old pine in the darkness. Another wail tears into the air and Ron droops; a tear drops after another. Angela… O’… My Angie.
Perched, a distance from a house in the night, she wept. She wept for the blood that would spill, for the children, for the old folks. But it was not until a blade threatened to sever a poor boy’s neck when she flew down from the tree.
Ron saw death first. A mirage, which would clear to the figure of a lady, approached from a distance. He would not make out much but that she was naked, shimmering like a Celestial and coming towards him… Him that needed rescuing.
She wailed as the men turned to her. Some dropped to their knees in submission. As she wailed on, others dropped to their backs and slept.
The closer she walked, the more real her female figures became. But something else became clear too—her tears were red from one eye and clear from the other.
She would take Ron, a helpless, lifeless boy. He looked scared, cold, or both. She would hold him, save him, raise him, and now… they are in love with each other. An owl. His Angela, his little bird.
A tiny hand rests softly on Ron’s shoulder. He turns with a smile as she joins him. Angela slumps her naked weight against his arms.
“It will never get easier,” says Ron, “but I will be with you, always…”