⏱ ~4 min reading
In an old forest, where the trees still remember their great-grandfathers, there was a large hollow in a tall pine tree. Warm, soft, lined with downy feathers. In that hollow lived a mother owl. Her name was Ugu.
Ugu had nine little owlets. Nine little chubby balls with big, very big eyes. They couldn't fly yet, they could only hop from one paw to the other. They had tiny beaks and soft tasseled ears that moved funny when the little owlets listened to the forest.
Every evening, when the sun sank behind the treetops and the forest began to smell of damp grass and resin, Ugu gathered her children into a tight circle. The nine heads huddled together, like nine round acorns in one hat.
"Time to sleep, my little ones," said Ugu gently.
The owlets sighed. One — louder. The other — very quietly, like the rustling of a leaf. The third one tried to hoot — "pugh-pugh," but then he yawned, and the hoot was lost in the yawn.
"Close your eyes, little ones," Mom whispered. "I'll sing you a lullaby.".
And Ugu began to sing.
Her voice was low and warm, like old linden tea. It didn't cut the silence—it embraced it. It covered her like a soft felt blanket.
«"Forest, sleep," sang Ugu. "Close your eyes, forest. Calm your branches."»
And the forest listened to her. The old oak tree next to the pine tree quietly shook its leaves - once, twice - and then stopped. The young birch tree, which usually whispered with the wind until late at night, lowered its branches lower and also fell silent. Somewhere below, a hedgehog, who was just returning home from an evening walk, stopped under a fern and also closed its round eyes.
«"Dawn, sleep," continued Ugu. "No, don't sleep. Shine softly. Shine so that my little ones won't be in the dark."»
The stars were heard. They did not go out - they only became softer, as if someone had thrown a thin veil of fog over them. The moon slowly rose higher and looked into the hollow with one kind eye - like a grandfather looking in on his grandchildren to make sure that everyone was covered.
«"My little ones," Ugu sang, and her voice became even quieter, even warmer, "sleep too. Sleep, my sunnies. Sleep, my fluffy ones. Mom is near. Mom won't fly away."»
And the owlets fell asleep. One by one.
The first owlet—the smallest, with a white spot on its chest—fell asleep first. It laid its head on its neighbor's wing and yawned sweetly. The second—the one that loved to hoot—closed one eye, then the other, and fell asleep. The third had already dreamed of a large moth. The fourth twitched its paw in its sleep and froze. The fifth, sixth, and seventh—fell asleep together, huddled together. The eighth sighed loudly. The ninth—the largest, the bravest—held out the longest, but its eyelids finally became heavy, and it too snored softly.
When all nine were asleep, Ugu carefully spread her big soft wings and hugged the little ones with them. On one side - a wing. On the other - a wing. The little owls found themselves in the warm, fluffy lap of their mother.
The hollow became completely quiet.
But it wasn't an empty silence. It was complete silence. The kind in which every drop is love. The kind in which all loved ones are close by. In it you can hear your mother breathing. Like a little owl yawning in its sleep. Like the forest outside falling asleep with them.
If your room is quiet right now, you are not alone. It is your mother's love, like big soft wings, hugging you from all sides. You are in your place. You are in your warm hollow. Everything is fine.
Close your eyes, little one.
Mom is nearby. Mom won't fly away.
Good night.
✨ Silence is not emptiness; it's when a mother's love quietly embraces you from all sides ✨