I’ve always been one of the many servants of the night. Even as I migrate, I hunt only amidst the dark. Whatever forest I am in, I take what my talons can grasp and feast into the flesh and bones of my prey. And I delight in it while doing so.

Yet sometimes, I find my desires reaching for what lies when the light comes. This longing pulls me by the feathers towards the horizon, and just as I catch sight of a small slip of light, I am scolded by the night. Told to hide away.

“You are not apart of the day’s domain,” it scolds. “You’ve known this since the day you hatched. So have the rest of my creatures.”

Begrudgingly, I listen. No aspect of nature wants to find out what happens when the night gets angry.

So I follow my natural pattern, and stick to it. When I am temporarily roused from my sleep, I take the time to sneak a peak at what the day holds. Squirrels skitter past my tree, nuts tightly packed into their cheeks. I take note of their brown fur, while keeping as still as a forest on a windless afternoon. When I fall back asleep, I sometimes think the eyes of the night are glaring at me.

Then the sun sets, the stars come out, and nothing happens.

Even as the night threatens fury, it seems to be too afraid break the rules.