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And so the tawny owl precariously wrapped her feet — for they seemed too tiny to be called “claws”, and not sinister enough to be called “talons” — around the tree branch. It was delicate, and perhaps the least sturdy. Nonetheless, she nuzzled her beak fondly against it, noting that this branch (and all those surrounding her) belonged to the most consistently handsome birch tree in the entire forest.





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