The night wind sweeps over the ridge and descends along the grassy slope.
The trees that live there respond with a rattle of leaves, bouncing gently on twigs. This open space within the endless forest plays to a different tune. Only the great white moon gives light between the trees at the bottom of the hill, where dark trunks support an endless canopy. The low hooting melody gives a presence to the bird sitting otherwise silently in a high branch. Its large twitching head rotates and its large eyes keep watch for the slightest movement across the leafy floor. There is a rustle beneath. Wings expand and the majestic creature drops and swoops in silence and gathers up. Soon after, the quiet returns, and the age-old mysticism of nature resumes, constant and private, unfolding at a steady and well-practised pace.
For us, there may be sadness that the flight has passed unseen.
But for us, there is the joy of knowing that it was there.