The Tawny Owl

I dreamed again of the tawny owl.

This marks the third time I've dreamed of crossing a precarious bridge by bike and finding myself in that glorious little glen between a wooded hillside and a river. On my side of the river, two gargantuan sycamores secure the bank. Across the river a large sandstone barn sits intact but abandoned.

The scene again enraptures me with its unaffected beauty. The colors are few, yet richly saturated. The bark peeling from the white boles of the sycamores complements the variegated stonework of the barn. The branches of the sycamores frame the barn in such a way that the greatest opulence of the scene occurs from the perspective I have just upon entering the glen.

As I drink in the scene before me, I am always aware, even in dream state, that I have some connection to this place that continues to bring me back. As I ponder, the tawny owl flies from the upper left quadrant of my vision and lights upon the right-most sycamore's largest branch, which extends horizontally from the trunk. Startled by its sudden appearance and by the recollection of its presence in the prior dreams, I pull my camera to my eye to capture what is now, in my mind's eye, a representation of some great beauty and meaning I have long sought.

The auto-focus on the camera hangs, so I switch the lens to manual and, for the first time in these three dreams, attain the shot.

I then awaken into this day.