Among the branches of the trees,
protected by the twilight of the night,
the owls nest,
solitary.

They whisper to communicate, always from far away,
very cautious they are,
they make no sound.

Their surroundings
they inspect with that rapacious look,
taking care of their forest,
looking over their sleep.

Wild detectives,
perceptive,
they know very well who moves,
who gets lost, who returns.

Nothing escapes from them,
nor anything that resembles them.
Their friend the moon accompanies them,
silent,
the most faithful of their confidants.

The night owls,
stare into their eyes,
and after a long journey,
they will fly home, finally.

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