Owls hoot on huge trees
along unlit paths of unpopulated roads.
They send chills down the spine
of the inexperienced night walker.
Their frontal eyes mean and cold,
they are supposed to be evil terrorising humans;
tales handed down from generation to generation,
tales my pen is unwilling to scrutinise.
Yet, they are creatures too, like the rest,
perching on the wings of survival.
Neither their adventures nor their fate
will stop my poetry ink from flowing,
these night owls and night walkers!
Written from the text prompt of Hour 20.