My mundane owl story.

Winter time in the city, trees are bare, the sky is clear and a full moon is out.

I was maybe 15 or 16, and walking home all fucked up from a cocktail of illicit substances.

In a sketchy hood, I chose to walk along the railroad tracks because
a) I grew up playing all over ‘em, and
b) I knew if I followed them I would end up one block from my home, rather than getting lost in a stupor

As I passed a barren tree, I turned to look at it and appreciate the scene. Just as I did, a large owl silently swooped in and landed on one of it’s branches. Fucking ninjas of the night skies that they are.

For a brief moment I entertained the thought that such a thing might be a bad omen, just before realizing such thoughts are foolish.

Better that I concern myself with real dangers, like a group of thugs happening upon a lone stoner bombed out of his mind in a dark, secluded area, than omens, specters, and other superstitious imaginings.