The sun arose, the valley glowed,
An owl sat in his oak abode.
His heavy eyes began to close,
When down below, a rustle rose.

A mouse had climbed into his tree,
So small, so quiet, she didn’t flee.
She curled up tight and fell asleep,
Unaware of the owl’s watchful keep.

The owl stirred, his feathers wide,
His shadow loomed as he stepped inside.
“Little mouse, this place is mine,
A hunter lives here—heed the sign!”

The mouse looked up, her eyes so bright,
But in their depths, there was no fright.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she softly said,
“I only sought a safe, warm bed.

If you wish, I’ll leave right now,
But I saw no harm in resting, somehow.”
The owl was stunned; she felt no fear,
Though he was the predator, she drew near.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?
Most creatures run—they always flee.”
The mouse just smiled and shook her head,
“I see a soul, not a thing to dread.

You’ve shown no harm, no reason to chase,
I see kindness beneath your face.
They may call you dark, but I see the light,
A heart concealed behind the night.”

The owl blinked, his chest felt tight,
Her words had stirred a softer might.
“Do you truly see me so?”
He whispered low, his voice like snow.

“I do,” she said. “You’re not just claws,
You’re more than fear or nature’s laws.
A shadow, yes, but shadows can be
A place of safety, a mystery.”

The owl stood still, his walls unmade,
Her gentle truth had not betrayed.
“You may stay,” he said at last,
And let his guarded fears drift past.

The mouse curled back, her heart at peace,
Her trust in him had brought release.
And as the stars began to shine,
The owl felt hope—his soul aligned.

For in her eyes, he saw the start
Of what it meant to show his heart.
No longer alone, no longer unseen,
For she had shown him what trust could mean.

After months of joy, the summer arose,
Miss Mouse felt at home where the tall oak grows.
The owl had let his true colors be known,
And she saw through the mask he’d once shown.

No fear held her back, no fright could infect,
Though big owls like him might hunt and dissect.
She’d crawled right into his guarded heart,
Knowing their bond was strong from the start.

One quiet morn, as the soft light lay low,
Miss Mouse crept out from her little tree hollow.
But Mister Owl, from his nightly flights,
Had not returned with the fading of night.

A thud on the trunk, a whisper below,
A faint, strained breath in the shadow’s glow.
Her heart raced fast, a thunderous beat,
So loud, it drowned out her scurrying feet.

“What happened to you?” she gasped, drawing near,
Her voice trembling with love and fear.
The owl, though pained, let a soft laugh ring,
“I’ve only hurt my wing—don’t panic, little thing.

His dreary eyes gazed into the distance,
And Miss Mouse saw walls rise in an instant.
They wobbled and fluttered, but held their place,
Guarding his heart, hidden from her embrace.

In perfect silence, they climbed to their hollow,
No words exchanged, only actions to follow.
She gently wrapped his wing in a makeshift bandage,
Then brewed some tea, a gift from Miss Skunk’s package.

Handing him the cup, he picked at the tea bag,
While she spoke words that made his defenses sag.
“I love you,” she said, her voice soft but clear,
Words he’d never believed, yet longed to hear.

They blinked in silence, her eyes full of fire,
Her voice ringing true, lit with desire.
“You don’t love me,” he said with a shake of his head,
“Don’t mess with my heart or the thoughts in my head.

You say you love rain, the wind, the sun,
But you run from them all when their trials come.
You reach for an umbrella, for shelter, for shade—
So how can you claim that your love has stayed?”

She met his gaze and softly replied,
“I love you, not as the rain or the tide.
Not as the sun or the wind in the air,
But as you, and all that you bear.

I love you entirely, through joy and through pain,
For your storms and your stillness, your sun and your rain.
Your rain falls, and I stand unshielded.
Your sun blazes, and I stay, unshadowed.

Your wind howls, and I root myself,
Unmoved, yet wholly swept away.
I love you like you, not for words or for touch,
But for all that you are—your little and much.”

The owl sat silent, her words taking hold,
Warming his heart that had long been cold.
For the first time, he let the walls fall away,
Her love like sunlight at the break of day.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “I can truly be seen,
Not just the shadow, but all that’s between.”
And as her warmth wrapped him in its embrace,
He felt a flicker of hope take its place.

Perhaps love was real, and perhaps it was true
For in her eyes, he saw something new.