Old Darnell was getting ready to mow the lawn, collecting twigs from beneath the tall maple and tossing them into the weeds out back. It was early spring; the trees surrounding the property had just begun to bud. As such, Darnell could stand beneath the maple, look up, and see snippets of blue through the web of branches. If not for this fact—if not for the time of year—he would not have seen The Day Owl up there, perched on a lengthy branch that forks away sharply from the trunk and extends out over his house. 

The Day Owl had let out a low hum—a long, monotonous note that carried for many measures. Old Darnell, kneeling, had started at the sound and lost his armful of sticks. He glanced up somewhat cautiously and caught a glimpse of lavender plumpness between the budded twigs. “My lucky stars!” he said, beaming. “At last!” 

The Day Owl was as enormous and purple-breasted as Lois had promised, its muscular chest rounded and sparkling in the narrow beam of sunlight that penetrated the treetop. Darnell backed away from the maple, his gaze never leaving the rare animal lest it should spring away into the sky before he could confirm the sighting. 

Within a few yards, the dog-sized bird came fully into focus. It regarded him with its oval eyes, orange as lava, the pupils long, sharp, goat-like. Darnell said, “I never thought…” but, overcome with wonder and a curious sadness, was unable to finish the sentence. The Day Owl opened its thin, angular beak, emitted another long hum. 

Old Darnell fumbled in his jeans pocket, withdrew his cellphone, attempted to snap a photograph—but The Day Owl lifted the dark feathers around its head—no, uncoiled them, each feather fanning away from its face so that, once finished, its eyes and beak appeared almost to spin away into the center of a black vortex. Darnell stumbled, shook his head, somewhat dizzy from the impressive illusion, and in the time it took to collect himself and glance up again, discovered that the bird had disappeared. 

Darnell opened his photographs, found that he’d captured but a blur of tree branches, and inside them, a smear of purple and twin swirls of fire. 

Later, as he prepared for bed, he lifted a picture frame from the nightstand. Inside the frame was an old photograph of Lois that Darnell had snapped while on their honeymoon on Mackinac Island. The sun was bright above her, the sky like painted glass. Behind her, glistening Lake Huron. Old Darnell ran his thumb over the picture, focused on her smile, her thick brown locks, remembered the roundness of her skull after the chemo had ravaged her. “I saw it,” he said. “Lois, my love. I saw it.” 

Soon enough, something broke through the rafters, clutched him, and carried him away to the stars.