One day you cross the bridge over Shoal Creek and see an owl carved from endless bands of metal, perched like it wandered in from another life. It stands across from the Central Library, a sentinel to the hush of water running below, the sound of pages turning behind tall glass walls. If it could blink, you’d see this city through a single glint of polished steel—sky crouching low, the hush of onlookers passing, each of them carrying something they'd rather set down.
The owl never sleeps. Its feathers ripple in layered reflections, a sculpture made from all the leftover hours. You sense it’s been waiting for you, for anyone brave enough to listen. Something in the lines of its body, the way it clenches the concrete with silent claws, suggests a memory from another century—like an old ghost, no longer lost, holding tight to the place humans forget to keep sacred.
All the while the creek flows beneath the arch, carrying secrets downstream. The library stands behind, a treasure box of echoes. Sometimes when you wait there long enough, the owl seems to shift its gaze to the water, acknowledging the quiet march of time. You catch your own reflection in its steel surfaces and think maybe this is what hearing your own story feels like. Maybe we’ve all got a nest in the city’s shadows, waiting to be remembered.