“Blind is not my name. Blind is not a deficit to me. It is a blessing to be blind. Being blind allows me a unique opportunity to feel my way through life.”

The bird extended his wings and shook them rapidly. The dew fell on the old mole as he spoke from the pine needles strewn upon the forest floor.

“It is sensuous to feel the warm, wet earth between your toes as you dig deeper and deeper. I can smell the rain long before it hits the ground above my head. I can hear the exoskeleton of the grubs crunch as I eat them in the darkness.”

Mole knew from the bird’s silence that he was feeling superior with his ability to fly. Crow always liked to brag. Mole would take the “fluff” out of his feathers.

“I would not surrender one day of endless night for the chance to see the flowers in the garden, Crow. For me, their scent is sweeter and their roots are softer without seeing them.”

The bird leaned closer to the mole, “But I am not crow,” he said. And with that, the owl swallowed the old mole whole.