An owl has excellent vision.

_“EeeeeeeEEEk. EeeeeeEEEk.” _

It also has excellent ears.

Nothing in the blades of grass below indicates a living creature. But there is the hint of a rustle, the sniff of a nose, a brush of whiskers. And then the fatal mistake of a squeaking rat that lifts its head.

In the time it takes the rat to notice danger, it is already pierced through the neck by razor sharp talons. The owl feels squelching and squirming beneath its feet as the rat’s nerves fire in autonomic, primal response. Talons squeeze harder until the sensation stops. The flight back to the nest will be easier with no squirming.

The owl feels the reverence of the forest floor, silent in its awe and fearful of her presence. All wildlife holds its breath in the face of her. The cicadas stop their chirping when the rat dies. They know it will not be her last meal.

But she would not call herself a predator, per say. She is just another survivor.

The nest is waiting.