A bird they say, glorified. An owl. Who stayed on the ground and refused to fly. A friend of hers, flew to the sky. Refused to be let down, hugged the clouds, recoiled from the ground. Another bird, a gorgeous bird. A swift, the bird that never lands. The owl looked to the skies at night and realized she missed her…again. For the swift was a day bird, and so they would rarely be able to meet. They twisted and turned in blended dreams. For one’s nightmare was the other’s reality. They were the sun drenched in moonlight. You could not question their friendship, their bond. It was beyond anything nature intended, or expected. For how could it exist? They were simply never to be in the same hearth. To lose the owl, the swift thought, was to lose my laughter, my joy. To lose the swift, the owl thought, well that could never happen, it was unimaginable. Too cruel to contemplate. Inseparable, the claws of time and the shadows of deception never touched the auras of their intangible bond. The moon and sun, in this life, not lovers but best friends. Sisters knotted in months apart. Twelve feathers each, half on each wing, were given by the other. Glued by broken tears at the wrong time of day. The owl spoke incessantly, hooting until bits of terrain fell on her beak. For the night was alive, to keep silent was to dull the pumping beat of the stars. Yet time was a cruel beast, it never forgave the two birds. Their intricate lives were never to be connected, and so revenge was their only reward for doing so anyways. It tore and it ripped the day and the night apart, ‘till there was no time to speak of. Yet when the owl and swift fell to the endless abyss, their twelve feathers each refused to free their illuminations. They flew to the heavens, and brought the sun and her reflecting moon back to the skies, and so they flew once more.