The Owl.

One night last week Susan came across an owl, laid out in the road and dead as a doornail.  It was still way beyond warm (she described it as “hot,”)  and beautiful to look at.

So she took it home and set it to rest in our garage, expecting to get around to burying it or something.

But Susan is a Natural Literalist, and soon conspired to have some fool (ahem, you might know this guy) climb an icy tree and get Poor Dead Owl into a postion worthy of it’s living stature.

So here’s Owl, tucked into a high cranny in an old, broken pine:

Rest in Peace, my Sister.