Ember and the Owl on the Ridge

Ember blinked at a pale shape on the far ridge. Was that an owl?

She stood on a low hummock, where the open tundra stretched away in every direction. Snow covered the ground, with little tufts of grass poking through here and there. Ember was a young snowy owl, mostly white, with dark marks scattered across her wings. Her feathers blended so well with the winter land that even she sometimes had to look twice at herself in a patch of ice.

The pale shape sat on the next ridge. It seemed to have a round head and two wide shoulders. It even appeared to be looking right at her.

“Hello?” Ember called.

The wind carried her voice over the snow. The shape did not answer.

Ember tipped her head. A snowy owl might be sitting quietly, watching for a small meal. Or perhaps it was another young owl, just as curious as she was.

“I’ll come say hello,” Ember decided.

She lifted her broad wings and flew low over the tundra. A gust brushed her feathers. Loose snow whisked across the ridge ahead, and the pale shape seemed to lean to one side.

Ember slowed.

“Maybe it heard me,” she murmured.

She landed beside a tuft of grass. From there, the shape looked taller than before, with a bump that might have been a head. She hopped onto a small ridge to see better.

The wind blew again. Snow swept across the far slope, briefly hiding the shape. When the white veil passed, its outline had changed. Now it looked as if the owl had turned away.

Ember’s feathers lifted in the breeze. She was still curious, but she did not want to swoop straight at a stranger. She searched the quiet land for a better view. A shallow dip ran between her ridge and the next, and the low ground curved around toward the side.

“I can look from over there,” she said. “Then I’ll know for sure.”

Ember spread her wings once more and glided along the dip, keeping the mysterious shape in sight whenever the blowing snow allowed. The ridge curled ahead, and the grass tufts made little dark marks against the white. Beyond them, the pale figure waited without moving.

Ember followed the curve of the low ground. The wind pushed snow over the tundra in thin, wandering ribbons. Each time a ribbon crossed the far ridge, the pale shape changed. Its head seemed to shrink. One shoulder grew wide, then narrow again.

“Are you turning around?” Ember called.

No answer came. The shape only wavered in the blowing snow.

Ember paused behind a little rise. She could fly straight over and find out, but she remembered how the outline kept changing. Perhaps she was seeing the ridge itself, or a tuft of grass, or something else that only looked like an owl from far away.

She had an idea. Instead of staring from one place, she would circle around the ridge and compare what she saw from different sides.

Ember lifted into the air. She flew in a wide loop, first above the shallow dip, then around the end of the ridge. The breeze tugged at her feathers, but she held her wings steady. From this side, the pale shape looked less like a bird. Still, a rounded bump seemed to sit on top.

Ember circled once more, then landed on a nearby mound. She looked carefully at the shape, and then at the land around it.

There was the low ridge, making one rounded shoulder. Just behind it stood a tuft of dry grass, its thin stems gathered into a little point. Snow had piled against the ridge and around the grass. Together, they made a head, a back, and a funny little beak.

A gust slid over the ground. The drift’s “head” grew long and then settled back into a lump.

Ember gave a quiet hoot. “You aren’t an owl at all. You’re a snowdrift!”

The snowdrift did not answer, of course. But now Ember could see how the ridge and grass had played their parts. From far away, they had made a wonderfully convincing owl.

She glided down and settled nearby, just as she had hoped to do with the real bird she imagined. The mystery was solved, and the answer made her smile. She tucked her feet beneath her warm feathers and watched the wind brush the drift into a new shape.

Ember stayed beside the little mound, with the snowdrift on one side and the quiet tundra all around. There was no need to hurry now. She had found her answer, and the answer was as interesting as an owl.

A thin stream of snow passed over the drift. The pointed grass stems disappeared. The rounded “head” softened, and the whole shape seemed to settle lower against the ridge.

Ember watched closely.

“Now you look like a sleeping seal,” she whispered.

The wind made no reply. It smoothed the snow along the ridge, then moved on across the open land. A few dark grass tips appeared where the breeze had brushed the surface. Farther away, the low ridges made gentle bumps beneath the wide winter sky.

Ember turned her head and looked back toward the place where she had first seen the owl-shape. From there, she knew, the drift might still look like a bird. She felt pleased that she had not guessed too quickly. She had circled around, looked from another side, and noticed the little clues: the ridge and the tuft of grass.

“Good night, snowdrift,” she said.

A small, soft hoot came from Ember’s own throat. The sound traveled only a little way before the open tundra gathered it up.

She settled her feathers close. Her white plumage, marked with dark flecks, rested against the snowy ground. The air felt still for a moment, though the wind continued its slow work beyond her.

The drift changed shape again. It became a low hill, then simply a pile of snow beside a ridge. Ember watched without trying to decide what it might become next. The land had room for all kinds of shapes, and the wind could make a new one whenever it pleased.

Above her, the wide sky held its quiet. Ember tucked her beak into her feathers and rested beneath it, content with her discovery while the snow settled around the grass and ridge.