Among the black yews, their shelter, the owls are arranged in a row, like alien deities, the glow of their red eyes pierces. They ponder. They perch there without moving, till that melancholy moment when quenching the falling sun, the shadows are growing. Their stance teaches the wise to fear, in this world of ours, all tumult, and all movement: Mankind drunk on brief shadows always incurs a punishment for his longing to stir, and go.

-Charles Baudelaire