The Inquisition of the Owl

June 4, 2009

In the early morning hours the owl by my house began to hoot. Still in my dream state I understood why the owl has traditionally been associated with the virtue of wisdom. The owl's call is an unchanging sentence of three parts, beginning with an introduction crescendo: hruu-oohh-aah, forming the catholic inquisition encompassing all the questions that had arisen thus far in my dream. The call then answers itself with two "hoos" which express the duality of all life, that to every question two responses can equally suffice.

But I half-dreamt half-philosophized that still I was not satisfied. What did the owl mean to tell me? In my dream I hooted back, a call of my own: words, antonyms and synonyms, metaphors and analogies, a rise in tone and a final, vocal punctuation mark. A few seconds followed, as though the owl were considering my statement, turning it over in his mind. In that time, I realized why the owl conversed only in the morning, the only time of day when dream and reality are not yet separate and distinct: in the time when you may confuse what actually happened with what you dreamed, the owl has furtively gained its place into personification that seems superior to other creatures. It has gained its wisdom by subterfuge, perhaps simultaneously proving its own cleverness.

Now, the owl was ready for its final response. It answered in the same, three-part call it had opened with: hruu-oohh-ahh. But this time I understood what he meant: each answer can be found buried within its own question.