There is this pleasant little place they like to refer to as a branch—the human, that is. Those odd creatures, all bone with no feathers. If only they would realize we are everywhere. Our eyes can be seen gleaming through the darkness. While they walk skittishly through woods and streets, tripping over loose stones and their own long legs, we see them clearly. In truth, there is little we do not see from our branches.

I feel for them, sometimes. I often wonder how cold they have to be. All skin and bones with nothing to cover them but these rags they call “clothes.” There is something I’ll never begin to understand. Why do these clothes have so many different names?

Clothing is simply the overall term, but there are jackets, shoes, coats. I’ve lived many years and have yet to discover exactly why this is. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to call everything the same thing?

And don’t get me started on those godforsaken street lights. As if their boisterousness wasn’t enough, they feel the need to curse the night with an unnecessary amount of it. If I could, I’d dig my talan’s into every one in sight.

But it’s so much better to sit here and watch.

Every night, someone walks by—more than a few, in fact. Every night, I raise my head high and call out into the void. Every night, it sends goosflesh to the surface of their skin. How could something be so terrified of an innocent sound, when there are worse things I’ve heard from them?

Evil things. Wicked things that soil the night and cause such distruction.

We are lucky we winged creatures glide above it all. That is why we have been given wings—to avoid the chaos of man that is unavoidable amongst even themselves.

This is why the night has become a home. Because for some reason, when the lights dim and all that’s left are their small shadows following behind them, anything could send them scurrying back to their boxes with moving, electric monsters.

It’s funny, what they fear is night, when the real things they should be are themselves.

I’ll stick to catching field mice, thank you very much.

I only wish their fletchings would cease poking fun at my neck while I rest. It really does cause one to be self conscious.