In the misty gray woodlands, an owl of incredulous size sat in an abandoned nest among the withering branches of a late oak tree. A truly regal creature it was— dusty feathers that seemed to be borne of the fog that surrounded the place, with areas around the face and wings dappled with light snowfall. The creature's gaze scanned the surrounding area, its eyes like two bright yellow moons fallen from a distant galaxy. They illuminated a path of least resistance into the decaying woodlands, and the bird committed the trail to its memory. 
Before the owl could follow it, however, it felt something—several things—writhing beneath its rounded wings. It felt the things floundering about against its feathers, until finally it lifted its wings— and out popped three little puff-ball heads with striking yellow bulbs for eyes. The owl stroked the delicate heads of the chicks with its great wing, and cooed a soporific melody with its alto voice. But, the little ones did not sleep just yet, and instead countered their parent's melody with their cheeps and warbles, holding their mouths open expectantly. The owl seemed to sigh, and looked back at the path it had scoped out before. With a grand thrash of its wings and naught but a light breeze left behind, the bird was away into the arboreal beyond. 
The owl soared past the trees, effortlessly weaving over, under, and between the branches. It glided through the forest like a fleeting phantom, casting a shadow so great, any creature below would thing the moonlight overhead flickered as it soared. The wind seemed to whistle an allegretto melody under the imposing wings of the passing bird, and the music was what kept it lifted— the ascending scales lifted the creature into a grand updraft, the gale pulling it forward into a crescendo soaring towards a fortissimo. 
And what a crescendo it was! The owl caught sight of a skittering vole, and in an instant, it was nosediving. The helpless creature tried to flee, but its pizzicato footsteps could not outrun the great arco of the owl's flapping wings. Silently, intricately, the bird lowered itself towards the ground, letting the breeze's aria guide it towards its prey. Then, before the little vole could even comprehend what was happening, the owl's beak clamped shut con fuoco around the thing's mousey body— niente before its phrase was complete. 
With its task complete, the same melody carried the owl back towards its nest. If beaks were capable of curling into a grin, the owl would surely do so; in its mind, the petulant little chitters of its children vying for a bite of their meal was cause enough to defy anatomy for a moment.