An old building. Bricks aged patina-like. Years of loneliness. No plant to show life is in sight.
An owl stands on guard. It has wings, but it can’t fly. Like a gargoyle, it’s only a sculpture. Unlike a gargoyle though, this owl looks into the room, scares away no one. A bird, attracted by something, lands. It has wings; it can fly.
Out of the room, bubbles of hope float into the world. The bird observes the bubbles of hope. No wings, yet they fly. Bubbles, like our hopes, don’t have wings. Like the wind, our spirit gives them direction, purpose, meaning, life. The bird and the owl know.