What you’ve stumbled into is the meeting point between wild instinct and human meaning-making. The owl is there for food, following invisible paths of mice and moths, guided by senses tuned far beyond your own. Yet its sudden arrival in your small circle of light cracks open something older: the feeling that the dark is not empty, that you are being regarded, not just surrounded.
Across centuries, people have looked at owls and seen more than a hunter. They’ve seen a keeper of thresholds, a presence that understands what moves when others sleep. When one chooses the tree above your yard, it can feel like a quiet summons to sharpen your own seeing—to notice subtler truths, to listen beneath the noise, and to trust that even in your most shadowed hours, you are not unseen.
