Elle veille (She watches over)
A single vein of pink interrupted the smooth tan. Legend says that it was not always smooth. The now anonymous stonecutter, rough-handed, sure-handed, had, they say, given it a pert beak and two very open eyes. They must have seemed marbley when observed by the many passing people who stopped and caressed it. Always with the left hand. Always with a deep wish. Harbor, cure, a sought-for future joy or safety. One would believe that that calm owl, relieved out of the buttress, gave more solace to the townsfolk than the priest inside, beneath the arches. Certainly, from the staring bird rose more confidence than from the mold-ridden confessionals. Rising from knees felt superfluous when the hand descended from the stone.
Her wings were folded, she was at rest, but all believed that she shielded and protected the town as if those wings were deployed and as long and powerful as those of the Cherubim, "like the roar of rushing waters" when they beat.
The confidence was antique, dating from the time a gargoyle fell and killed a waiting bridegroom. But still today, all the gargoyles could leap; the owl would levitate them.