Like his twisted feathers, his many scars, the reliable old owl chose the gnarled, weather-beaten, but solid branch often. It being a companion to the wise alone with the night and the last branch to creak in the heaviest wind. He often came to survey the fields and the clouds before his hunt, to listen to the steady sound of the stream passing through reeds under the bridge, while combing his feathers for the unwanteds. Whatever they might be.