A barn owl rises -wings spread wide, catching the last of the low sun. For a moment, light passes through the feathers. Something translucent, almost fragile, in a creature built for darkness.
Owls have been messengers in almost every ancient culture -between worlds, between the living and the dead, between what is seen and what remains hidden. I didn't paint a symbol, more of a moment. But some moments carry more meaning than they seem.
The pale, craquelé surface above feels like old parchment -bare branches etched into it like a map of something forgotten. The owl rises through it, feathers burning amber, bringing light from below.