Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the owl.
Its ability to see at night is legend among the Native Americans, and this attribute is invoked during ceremonies when an oracle of secret knowledge is required.
Here I bring to your attention that any question the owlets asked and that began with ‘why’ I answered with confidence, even as those questions became more complex and touched upon history, philosophy, and foreign languages. I answered until the owlets no longer asked questions, perhaps because the questions revealed too much. Only then did I, the oracle unconsulted, stop answering.
West African and Aboriginal Australian cultures view the owl as a messenger of secrets, kin to sorcerers, as well as companions to seers, mystics and medicine people.
Maybe that is also why the owlets stopped asking questions—they might see their questions and the answers in print, for writers are sorcerers of words, seers of truths, purveyors of medicines—and some truths, like most medicines, are downright unpleasant.
During medieval times in western and central Europe it was fabled that owls were actually priestesses or witches in disguise.
Most obvious in my case, as I do my work at night, in the otherworldly electric blue glow of a computer screen. I lack substance in daylight and am prone to sunburn. To the owlets, who have now departed the nest, I am but a voice on a telephone—perhaps I am in disguise as a voice on a telephone.
Owls are associated with wisdom, foresight, and are seen as keepers of sacred knowledge.
Now that the owlets have acquired their own wisdom in more complex sectors of the world beyond the nest, the sacred knowledge is no longer required. Wisdom is a commodity to be manufactured by experience, not something to be received, like a phrase in passive voice.

You see, ladies and gentlemen, I am the owl. I have been perfectly comfortable with this—it gave some sense to my constant search for knowledge, my books, my writing. It justified the time during which I had been answerer of questions.
So it was with a great deal of consternation that I watched my kindred, the Patagonian Horned Owl (Bubo virginianus) fighting with a species of long-legged guinea pig called a Mara, in order to gain control of burrows in the Patagonian plain to shelter from the roaring Patagonian wind. I am told that the Patagonian Owl is also called—most prosaically—the ‘Burrowing Owl.’

Owls in holes, I need to think about that.

I recently discovered your site and it’s great! All the articles and tips are very helpful. I’m very new to blogging and have been working on flash fiction. I recently posted one on my blog called “The Morning Run”. I would love to hear your comments.