Under the dome of seconds

The first sixteen seconds

. Her world. Her own nightmare. Her unfulfilled dreams. For six months, she had been nothing but a memory of her former self. The world... she simply hated it. And there was no going back. She plunged into a darkness she'd seen only once in her life, one that had completely consumed her. She used to write poetry, smile, be optimistic, listen to the latest hits, wear short skirts and let her hair down. She used to belong to this world and accept all its rules, all its regulations, even the senseless ones. Now she listened to the beating of her own heart. She lay there, staring at the ceiling. She thought about God. She didn't blame him for giving her this life. She wondered why he gave people free will, why they couldn't simply be good. It would be easier. Better. Simpler. Boring.

The next eight seconds .

Madness slowly grew inside her. She couldn't live here any longer. Lying on this bed. She couldn't. She wouldn't accept this world. She hated it. It had only evil to offer. And she didn't want it. No. She loved no one, had no friends, no one would notice her disappearance. The confusion in her head grew. It grew bigger and bigger. She was increasingly convinced that leaving the stage was the right thing to do.

From 10 p.m. to 38 p.m.

The clatter of breaking food went on. Her stepfather must have been drunk again. He didn't do it often, but when he did, the whole neighborhood could hear it. He's probably throwing bottles at her mother now. It's not good. She can hear their screams. She once told her mother not to bother with him for her. That she didn't want her father. Her mother only hugged her. She hadn't smiled once since her father died. The same expression of sadness and helplessness appeared on her face every day. Gray days when she washed dishes in a dirty apron, her hair tied up haphazardly. The furniture is almost falling apart, but she keeps washing and tidying it up, dusting it, and telling her daughter it's still good. Every now and then, a mousetrap. Sometimes even a full one. Life for such a trap is easy. Boring. But simple at the same time. The screams from downstairs slowly grew louder.

Another forty-three seconds.

She stood up. But too abruptly, her head swam, and her vision went black. She loved this moment when she didn't really know where she was, everything was behind a veil of blackness, everything spinning and yet remaining in its place. Everything was relative. She was standing on an old rug. In the middle of the room. The only room where the furniture still held together. The camera panned over her, as cleverly as if she were standing there while everything around her was spinning. Yes... she had seen it before. She, a poor girl from the third world. She, an outcast of this society. She could already see the lens moving closer to her face, closer and closer, until it was finally right next to her eye, even closer... now on the television screen, they would see her iris and pupil up close, now only her pupil. The screams grew louder. Another bottle landed on the wall. Or maybe it was the vase she'd given her mother when she was only ten?

Twenty-eight seconds.

The woman dodged the next object piercing the air. It worked this time too. She'd met the man, whom she now saw more as a slobbering, rabid animal than a human being, by accident. He'd helped her pick up her groceries when the bag burst. It was probably one of life's mistakes. She was crying. She didn't even know why. Maybe it was all too much? Her younger daughter had died of an overdose. Another victim of an unfair fight. But thanks to this, she had a better chance of the living one doing better. Less money for food, which they didn't have much of anyway. Of course, she cried for her daughter. Her treasure. But she couldn't bring her back. Another object. A crack, and the vase was gone. But this man was screaming. She'd had enough of him. She reached back; there was something lying there. Was it hard? Yes. It was hard enough. She threw it. Surprisingly, it hit her head. Eighty kilograms of raw weight fell to the ground with a thud. He fainted. Good, at least he wouldn't scream, wouldn't hit, wouldn't hurt her. But what now? Would he wake up, and what? She probably shouldn't have thrown it.

Another fifteen seconds.

She quickly and frantically threw everything she could into the suitcase. Her hands grabbed every item in the drawer. Pants, a blouse (brought by help from the church), socks, underwear, another pair of pants. Black, black, black, black. Her long, straight hair was just getting in the way now. She hadn't tied it since morning. She grabbed a scrunchie. A veritable battle between reason and the urge to escape raged in her room. She'd had enough. She was breathing fast, very fast. Her heart was pounding so hard that her blouse trembled slightly.

She opened the drawer and pulled out beads, rings, money as quickly as she could. She had to get out of here. This man would kill her someday, and she wouldn't be able to defend her daughter anymore. The only sound heard throughout the house was the noise of drawers being opened one by one.

Fourteen seconds.

He slowly opened his eyes. How could she? What was going through her head? And what was she doing? She said she had no money left, what the hell was that? He slowly rose. He was about to strangle her, or stab her. He was coming closer, closer, a little closer still. He could almost feel her warmth, her scent. She was like an animal, a rabid animal.

Something fell out of another blouse being tossed into the bag. A razor blade? Why is she here? She put it in her sweatshirt pocket. It seemed to be wrapped in some tissue paper.

Sixteen seconds

. He was punching her in the face. His hands were already wet with sweat, her tears, and probably blood. He hated her. She had lied to him, said she had no money left, and here she was. Something had run into the room. Oh no, that little brat. He could handle her too.

She stood with her suitcase, looking at the unpleasant sight. A broken frame with her brother's photo, full of glass. A man punching her mother. And this victim of fate just cries. Maybe she'll defend herself after all? Now she can't leave her mother alone with this monster. Not after what she's seen. He was closing in on her. She grabbed the remains of a chair; maybe she'll at least defend herself a little. He was closer, closer, and closer. Just a few more steps. Two, one, he's about to strike. Seconds. The man fell to the ground a second time.

Forty-one seconds

. They ran out of the house. He wasn't hit hard enough to keep them from getting up. They had to escape among the people. They simply had to. They could feel at least a little safe there. A detailed description could be included here. The girl's inner experiences. But it all ends with the fact that she was hit by a car, and to prevent rescue, she slit her wrists with a razor blade she'd hidden in her pocket. This is the last 39 seconds.

The fragility of human life

Every day, gazing at the sun, Anne searched for the truth of life. She peered out at the world through a thin layer of glass hidden in the window frame. "A strange landscape, containing many secrets, even full of an extraordinary force of life," the girl thought. Sometimes she saw a white mesh of snow on the ground, other times a meadow dotted with multicolored flowers, and it took a real effort to avoid those silky petals and green leaves. She

looked away, and a gloomy image of a gray room appeared before her eyes. Here and there, shades of the rainbow flashed, as if forcing themselves to brighten the grayness of the world...

She was only fifteen years old, and each day she reaped the fruits of her labor. She didn't have many friends, because society itself closed itself off from her diminutive figure whenever she appeared in company. She was interested in the fates of people from earlier eras: she knew the names of most philosophers and their views. There wasn't a single Greek myth that escaped her attention.

She walked over to one of the walls perpendicular to the window. She glanced into the mirror in the old mahogany frame. The reflection showed a figure with long, fair hair that flowed stiffly across her face, not fully concealing her green eyes. They were eyes with a wise gaze that never failed her in brief conversations with her classmates.

"School again tomorrow," she said bitterly. She disliked her because of the students who gave her their mocking smiles every day and talked loudly about her with twinkle in their eyes.

Sunday evening was drawing to a close. She sat alone at the table and repeated the last lines of the poem: "A cloud reveals the moon, a cold, silvery light falls on my face. The Silver Lord..." She stopped suddenly. Why "The Silver Lord"? After all, the moon is white, and the craters on its surface cause gray furrows to appear from the Earth; they look like wounds. The minutes dragged on mercilessly as she stood silently, pondering the solution to her problem, which was so simple that no one noticed. Perhaps there were people who had gone completely mad, studying every detail of every planet in the solar system. She gave up trying. She decided to riffle through all the astronomy textbooks she could find when she had more free time. She tacked a note to the enormous corkboard in her room: "Why the Silver Lord?"

Monday morning arrived. Ania dragged herself out of bed and hurriedly ate a meager breakfast. Little did she know that this day would irrevocably change her life.

With a large navy blue bag over her right shoulder, she ran to the gates of her school. The building resembled a large yellow box with numerous attached corridors and segments. The girl sighed and crossed the threshold. She was to spend a full seven hours here.

"Just as I suspected," she said, seeing those faces she'd thought about with distaste the previous day. Bad humor wasn't a feeling that often lingered in her mind. Truth be told, she wasn't familiar with it. She usually remained serious. No one could understand why she was like this.

The beginning of class was like any other early lesson: a whole crowd of sleep-deprived people yawning everywhere, including one—Anna, sitting upright, wearing a black jacket with a white collar—usually active. Usually active, but now she didn't even volunteer to express her opinion or draw conclusions. She was pondering the Silver Lord. She didn't want to share her problem with anyone because she felt the others wouldn't give her an answer and would even laugh at her.

Time seemed to fly by twice as fast. Anne walked home alone, absorbed in another book; she was absent. She crossed the street in the crosswalk, but didn't cross. She lost consciousness...

She woke up after a few hours. She saw faces bending over her. She was lying in a hospital bed. Everything was empty, and the windows were covered with snowy screens, providing light shade. She felt a terrible pain in her left side. She couldn't raise her head, because every attempt brought agony. She lay motionless, haunted by thoughts: "How long have I been here? What happened?" This question tormented her most.

"Is something wrong with me?" she asked the tall, kind-faced nurse. The nurse cast a searching glance at Ania and, with a grim expression, began sweeping the floor again. She was probably unsettled. Ania didn't want to wait any longer.

"Ma'am!" she shouted hoarsely. "Can you explain to me why I'm here and why my left side hurts?"

The woman stopped and, placing her hands on the broom handle, said quietly:

"You were hit by a speeding car. You're crushed..." She didn't finish, but it was enough for the girl.

She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. "So she was hit and now she's waiting for her sentence. How long will she stay here?" she wondered.

The clean door swung open, letting in some light. The doctor entered and, with a grim expression, approached the patient.

"How are you feeling? You were almost sent to the afterlife. It was a drunk driver. I can't answer the questions that torment you yet. But I have to tell you one thing," he stared at the floor, "you'll never be able to walk again in your life. I'm sorry, but you have to know the truth..."

Ania didn't know what to do. All her plans were shattered. She wanted to be a philosopher, learn about other cultures, and travel the world. But how could she realize them in this state?

* * *

It was two in the morning when she woke up. Fear gripped her. She remembered every detail of her dream. It was a nightmare.

"...She was sitting in a wheelchair in the garden next to her house. She was trying to find reality and consciousness in the shade of the cherry leaves. And then, as she was examining the plants closely, someone pushed her forward with great force. She rode forward, unable to stop. She fell from the wheelchair..." She

had previously been unable to imagine such a life, but now, when she met it face to face, she understood what anguish it was. For a long time, she stared at the shadows dancing lazily on the ceiling before sleep overtook her again. She woke at dawn to the sound of birds chirping outside. The pain was still there. As she silently counted the seconds, she heard the scraping of a chair against her ankles. Her mother was sitting across from her, her eyes ringed with salty tears and a whole box of tissues on her lap.

"Mom!" said Ania weakly. "I'm so glad you came to see me!"

Her mother looked at her caringly and shed another round of tears.

"Don't cry, Mom," the girl pleaded. "It's not your fault. No one can escape the fog that the future casts around them."

The woman quickly wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. "But I'm your mother, and it's my duty to protect you!" she said.

They spent many hours together, and all of nature seemed to cry with them. Tiny, silvery raindrops slowly streamed down the windows. Days passed, and Ania slowly recovered, ignoring only the fact that she would never stand on her own feet again, much less walk a few steps. She could educate herself and explore the world, but only by lying down. She lived in blissful ignorance that her lifespan would pass sooner than expected.

"She's not well," the doctors said. "She absolutely must know this. She has at most a month to live. Let her make the most of it." The Medical Council decided to inform the girl's mother of the problem. The woman couldn't cry anymore. She decided to confess everything to her daughter. She wanted Anne not to waste these last days.

It was a cold evening, and Anne lay in bed, leafing through another book. And suddenly something struck her.

"The Silver Lord, the Silver Lord," she thought feverishly.

"Eureka!" she said with a smile. "I understand."

She felt wonderful. But as she gazed in wonder, she felt a weakness fill her entire body. She saw only blackness, as if someone were leading her to a vast cellar and extinguishing the candle flame. Then the darkness turned to gray, and then to white, which seemed even more terrifying than the black. She felt the cold drawing her deeper and deeper. She heard her mother's voice, screaming something. The whiteness vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She lay drenched in sweat. The hazy figures slowly took shape.

"Anne! My daughter!" her mother said in a trembling voice.

"Mom, I understand... I know what it means to truly live," she said, blinking slowly. "Now I have to go.

" "No, you won't!

" "I have to. Mom, I love you. I will watch over you from Heaven. I will watch over you..."

And she closed her eyes...

* * *

She walked along the magnificent silver-white road. Dressed in a flowing robe, she stood before a gate of pure gold.

"Be blessed," said the Silver Lord, and turned the key in the gate's lock.

Everyone will pass away someday. A fate not necessarily awaiting them is the same as that which befell little Anne. She left her soul in the hearts of those she loved during her life on earth and when she looks down from heaven. Memories will return someday. And we will all join her. When will our time run out? I don't know. Perhaps sometime far in the future. But not yet...

True friends are known in poverty.

I've had and still have many problems: there's no money for flour or bread, or my parents have argued again. I live in the countryside, in a small shack with a thatched roof. My parents run a farm. We raise cows, pigs, and goats. Our difficult financial situation has been ongoing for generations. I've never had any female friends; Drozdowska has always been a complete loner. While the girls were out playing with the boys, I was herding sheep and milking cows. Even in my free time, I had no time for fun; my father found me a job, or I took care of my siblings. I fed, changed diapers, and watched over them. Janek, Krzysiek, Sławek, Mieszko, Mirek, and Zbyszek grew up in my wicker stroller.

My name is Tosia, Tosia Drozdowska. Red hair, freckles, and a very emaciated figure—they made me look unattractive. I've never had a boyfriend or a friend.

In our home, words like "television" and "radio" don't exist. In the mud hut, we had two modest rooms, a basement, and an attic. All the children lived in one room. A wardrobe, two beds, and a table were all there was. The kitchen and my father and mother's bedroom were connected. I often spent my free time in the attic. I spent my time there, lost in my own thoughts. I slept on the floor, and there was also a tiny table made of cardboard and an oven. I used to bake bread in the oven with my mother, but now my father had built a new one in the kitchen. The large dance floor, where I sang and danced, served as my stage.

At my school, no one ever tolerated me, and it's sad, but I was just trash there. I walked to school, to a nearby town, six kilometers away. Most of the kids in my class live in small towns. They laugh at me, call me names, and slander me. I'm different because I'm poor. I rarely had a slice of bread; I was hungry, exhausted from work. They didn't know this, didn't understand it, didn't know. I cried often. None of the girls comforted me, only she, Ela. She lent me a slice of bread even though she knew I wouldn't return it. My whole family was fed; I shared everything with my siblings. After all, they were hungry too. Her parents worked in a dairy and ran their own. Every day, when she visited me, she brought me a loaf of bread and a jar of milk. She took pity on me and comforted me, saying, "Don't worry, Tosia, it could always be worse." I remember her words to this day. It was thanks to Elka that I didn't go hungry, didn't worry. In her free time, she helped me with light chores: we tended the goats, sometimes the pigs. We would sit on a huge stone in the meadow, which we called the "Friendship Stone." We would talk. It was there that we most often confided in her about our difficult problems. I would tell her about my father and mother's new quarrels. Elka would stroke my long orange hair, saying, "This will pass, you'll see. We don't understand the adult world yet." I remember her black, fluffy hair, tied up in a ponytail. Her wonderful dark complexion, her radiant smile. She was a gypsy. Rejected by her school friends, she was my friend. She had always been strong, tough, powerful, and courageous, but she couldn't cope with this, she couldn't overcome it. Back then, there were no cures for serious illnesses. She died, jaundice had finished her off. She died on October 23, 1963.

I'm picking flowers in the meadow. I'm going to visit. She was buried near my house. We all felt her death. There was no bread, no flour. We were hungry again. She didn't tell me she was sick; she was strong; I didn't suspect it; it was summer, after all, and I wore a scarf too. I remember her death. I was grooming her. Her mother came running, in tears, and told me to run to Ela as quickly as possible. She ordered her mother to pack all her clothes, shoes, and schoolbag for me. She knew I didn't have any. I was poor, very poor, I had nothing. I asked Ela why? She hadn't told me to say anything; now she wanted to say goodbye to me herself. She plucked a green stone from her hand, containing a piece of amber. "My talisman will take care of you; keep it with you at all times. Do you understand? Promise me this! Never give up, never. Remember, I will always be watching over you. I will help you!" I didn't know what she meant, I was stupid. She continued: "Tosia, you have such beautiful red hair, promise you'll never cut it!" She was in so much pain. I held her hand and squeezed it tightly. "I promise," I replied. "I didn't want to tell you because..." I didn't let her finish. Now I knew. It was not without reason that she went to the doctor every month. "You know, I... I'm dying. I wanted you to be with me. This has been tormenting me for two years." "I'm with you, Ela, I am!" "Take all my clothes. Promise!" "I promise"—she knew she shouldn't refuse me at a time like this. There was no need." "Tosia, I know you don't have any. Please take them. Remember, take care of Sofia, and never give up, fight to the end. Tosia, what beautiful red hair you have..." Those were her last words. The doctor came in and said it was too late. I ran out of the house in tears. I ran to the river. I held her talisman in my hand. Sofia was our favorite goat, the one we took care of. Now I only thought of her, of Elka. I thought of the times we spent together; we knew each other for nine years. Far removed from reality, we had our own world.

Now, two years later, I relive her death as if it were yesterday. I closed myself off, I don't talk to anyone. I developed anemia. I took care of Sofia. I didn't let her sell it. I promised. I put on her favorite sweater and don't part with it for a moment. I visit her every day, we talk. Sometimes she answers me and still repeats the same words.

Death of Cactus

Four men slowly lowered the coffin on ropes into the 4-meter-deep pit. The wooden box slid and slowly disappeared beneath the surface. Every so often, one of the men would loosen the rope too much, and the coffin would rub against the walls of earth that formed the pit. Silence reigned, with only the rustle of sliding earth and a faint sob coming from an unknown direction. A crowd had gathered around the pit. It was easy to tell who was who. In the front rows, faces were filled with sadness, suffering, and tears. These were family and loved ones. In the following rows, the men and women dressed in black were less despondent. It was clear that the cold February morning and the discomfort of standing for hours were more difficult for them than maintaining a serious tone. Every now and then, someone would turn to someone else, and whispers could be heard, even finger-pointing. They are acquaintances, the curious, those who have come out of duty, and simply passersby who, on their way to the graves of their loved ones, have stopped to watch. The latter are reliving the deaths of their loved ones. Their wounds are being scratched open.

The grave digger has almost finished filling the grave. People are slowly dispersing. The sobbing is getting louder.

A young man stands in the front row. He looks at the shovel, observing its every move. He is certainly close to the deceased, but he stands apart. Alone. He doesn't cry. He acts like a mental patient, his gaze fixed on a single point, making no movement. There's no trace of any emotion on his face. He's not here.

"What's the English word for coffin..." the young man thinks. "Should I be sad, cry? What will people think? I don't care. Why is that aunt howling so loudly? Hmm. But that shovel is rusty. I wonder if they bury bodies when it rains? Yes. It was raining when they buried Grandma. How many years ago was that? 10, 9? Yes. Ten. Suddenly, the image of Grandma's funeral flashes before his eyes. He was a child then, but he remembers feeling absolutely nothing, just like now. Although then he couldn't bear to watch his mother suffer. And now, absolutely nothing, but his mother is gone.

There's no one at the grave anymore; it's getting dark. On the mound of fresh earth, bouquets, flowers, and wreaths are laid out, candles are burning. The plaque with the inscription: Monika Metz, lived 31 years, died a tragic death, is almost invisible.

The Kowalski household was in turmoil. If you didn't know better, you might have thought it wasn't a wake but a wedding. Laughter erupted, mixed with someone crying for show. The room was bursting at the seams. Aunts with pink-painted firsts and uncles with red noses, eagerly anticipating the arrival of another little one. Every now and then, the words were uttered: "So young," or, on the other hand, "...so talented, she was working on her doctorate..." The queen of the evening was Aunt Teresa, who earned the title of Queen at his aunts' with her delicious stuffed turkey, and at his uncles' with her well-chilled "Ice Cream." No one even noticed that he was out of the house that evening, and no one in sight. His father was with his mother in the hospital, their son Michał was locked in his room, and she was already gone.

Michał could only hear snippets of conversations from beyond the wall. Everything merged into an unpleasant noise. He was sitting in an armchair covered with a blanket. The shovel was gone, but he found a new object to observe – a stuffed elephant – they'd bought it together some time ago, named Shimi. He didn't even try to think about it all. He had only two doubts – why wasn't he still suffering? And what's the English word for coffin? Coffin, a. He waited for the pain. He

closed his eyes. The impressions of the past few days were slowly fading away. Strange images appeared. He saw himself as a little boy. His room from 18 years ago. Small, two small beds, a small table, and two armchairs upholstered in warm plush. At the table, on the ground, sat the elephant – Shimi. It still smelled new. Morning sunlight shone outside, scattered on the needles of a huge cactus standing on the windowsill. He was sitting in an armchair, leafing through the latest issue of "Świat Młodych." Monika came into the room.

"You know what, Michał, my parents don't get home from work until 3 p.m., maybe we can help them and tidy up this cactus ourselves," she said with passion in her voice.

"But what if we fail? And kill him?

" "Don't talk nonsense. What can go wrong with transplanting a stupid cactus?

" "He's not stupid! It's my cactus, I got it from my grandfather, remember?!?

" "But it's just a plant. And anyway, it has to be done. It needs more space, it needs to grow deeper roots," Monika said, making one of those faces that made Michał trust her implicitly at that moment.

"Okay, but let's be careful," he said with sadness in his voice.

To him, it wasn't just a plant, an ordinary cactus. It was his friend, his confidant. People always need someone like that; they have friends, family, but he was alone and only had his plant. His parents worked very hard and never had time. Monika was his friend and authority figure, yes, but she was his older sister, and you shouldn't hang out with people like that; you have to tease and beat them instead.

They began by bringing a large flowerpot from the balcony. Michał didn't hesitate to play a little joke and locked his sister on the balcony for a moment. This allowed him to postpone this tragic moment. After freeing Monika, they prepared the soil and began to remove a meter-high, phallic-shaped cactus from the windowsill. It was very heavy. They cleared some of the soil from the small pot. They put on gloves and began the move. The narrow thorns pierced the gloves, but Michał didn't mind. He had stroked and cared for those thorns so many times. They had cut his hands countless times because of it. This time, it looked like the same thing was happening. One of the thorns was particularly bothering him, digging under his fingernail. "No, I have to endure this," he thought. He gritted his teeth and continued working. Monika, who wasn't as attached to the plant, felt the sting more intensely. At one point, she couldn't bear it any longer and let go of the plant. Michał tried to hold it tightly in his small, seven-year-old hands. But Cactus was almost his height, and his weight was too much for him. Michał hugged Cactus tighter and pressed him closer. However, he couldn't bear the pressure of his weight and fell with him to the ground. Cactus, falling, injured the boy's face, arms, and stomach. He slipped to the side, fell to the ground, and broke his bones. Michał didn't know what had happened. His whole body burned terribly, and worse still, his Cactus was dead...

He opened his eyes; it was already dark. Not even the slightest rustle came from beyond the wall. He began to ponder this story. And the reason why he remembered it now. Yes, this was the beginning of them. Him and Monika. He remembers how terribly he cried over Cactus. He also remembers the days that followed. He remembers how much he suffered, the feeling of emptiness, and the unpleasant vibrations in his stomach. He wanted to tell everyone, but he couldn't; he had no one. After a few weeks, he suffered even more, had more and more to share, and he couldn't. Then he broke down and started talking to Monika. He talked just like he did to Kaktus. Day by day, he felt better, forgot about the loss, having gained a new friend. And what's even better, this new friend was able to offer advice, answer questions, and sometimes confide in him about his problems. Michał changed day by day, became happier. He noticed beauty that hadn't affected him before. He enjoyed the morning rays of sunshine, gentle raindrops, and warm breezes. From a depressed child afraid of everything, he became a cheerful and joyful boy.

And that was until recently. But now... Once again, he has no one to tell all this to. Just a few days ago, he was telling his sister about his failed exam. And now, who should he tell about Monika's death? She's gone, Kaktus is gone. What should he do next? And why isn't he suffering? And what's the coffin in English?

He closed his eyes. And felt pain. He felt a dagger piercing his heart. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth. His heart stopped beating. Shivers ran through his body. The events of the past few days swirled in his head. He felt a pang of air. He saw flashes, first single, short bursts, then longer ones, turning into a blinding, continuous light. The last thought that managed to dominate his mind was: Monika, why didn't you catch that damn Cactus back then?!

Yellow Tale (aka Chicken Walker)

Chicken Walker woke up sleepless and in a bad mood. He had nightmares all night, from which, as is often the case, he remembered only blurry images in the morning. He remembered dreaming of large worms with shiny axes chasing him around the yard with malicious intent. Then he saw himself standing before a stately rooster, who said, "What should I do with Chicken Walker?" while the angry crowd shouted in a loud voice, "Cook it! Cook it!" At that very moment, the chicken awoke with a start. He

lay there for a moment, then stood up, stretched his beautiful yellow wings, and dragged his yellow belly to the puddle where he bathed daily. When he was finished, he looked at his reflection and squealed, "

Damn Christmas..."

He spat into the puddle and went out into the yard. A voice snapped him out of his reverie:

"Hello, Walker.

" The voice came from the ground. The chicken, startled out of his reverie, looked down and saw his old friend.

"Hi Walker!" George the Earthworm repeated louder.

"Hi George.

" "How's it going?

" "Fine," Walker said, spitting.

George and Walker had been friends for a long time, despite the general outcry of the backyard community. A friendship between a chicken and an earthworm might seem strange, but let's be honest: what in this world is normal?

"Which one?" the chicken asked.

"What?

" "Well, what number are you?

" "Ah. Thirty-two and a half. Since yesterday.

" "So that's all you have?

" "What can you do? Gotta make ends meet somehow," George the Earthworm joked.

The earthworm has an interesting property: when you cut it in half, both halves live on—each with its own life. There were always plenty of chickens roaming the backyard, and every now and then one would grab the earthworm for food. Sometimes he missed the mark with his beak, and the worm escaped, but in two pieces. So one day, when Walker met not just one George, but three, they decided to number themselves to avoid confusion.

Initially, everything went well. Problems began to arise when, later that day, George Six split into George Six, Seven, and Eight (it was morning). Around noon, George Seven, after a panicky escape, managed to split into George Seven and Nine (he remembered that Eight had already been there). By evening, George Six and Seven had been eaten, while George Eight had split into Eight and Nine. Thus, two Nines were born. Both were grandsons of Six, and neither wanted to relinquish their honored number (the lower the number, the more respectable it was). This day is called the Great Dividing Day and is celebrated among earthworms as a great solemn holiday, on which everyone wishes each other long life, good land and all the best.

So, from the Great Dividing Day, George Earthworm was divided into two main factions until last Christmas. Then, when Walker, the chicken, was invited to Christmas Eve, so moved the gathering with his speech about family and unity that all of George's descendants unanimously decided to unite as one and stick together from then on.

Walker's idea of ​​using fractions was adopted, so, for example, George

Seventeen (of whom there were five) appeared as George Earthworm Seventeen Proper, George Earthworm Seventeen and Two Tenths, George Earthworm Seventeen and Four Tenths, and so on. Since then, weekly meetings have been held to update the large family tree. Recently, the tree has begun to grow significantly, and there have been calls for computerization. As for Chicken Walker, he was awarded the title of Friend of Earthworms on the anniversary of the Great Divide, and a month later he received the title of Honorary Earthworm, along with free admission to weekly meetings and a lifetime pass to the soil ball games.

"Have you found the First One yet?" the chicken asked after a moment of silence.

"Still nothing. But we're not giving up. The Fourth One was asking about you. You haven't been to the meeting for a while.

" "I've had problems.

" "Yes, yes, rumors are spreading all over the yard. Apparently you're planning something for tomorrow.

" "And how do you know about this? Which one spilled the beans? If I find...

" "Calm down, no one spilled the beans," Kasia said.

"Kasia the Frog? A nasty toad." She lost her mind. You know what

she told me recently? That she doesn't want to be called "Kasia." "Kasia" is her

for the family and clients, and we all have to call her "Miss Katarzyna."

"Good!" This one has...

George didn't have time to say what Kasia the Frog had, because he suddenly divided it. It was thanks to the beak of Rafał the rooster, who, sneaking up behind him, took a swing at George. Rafał wasn't hungry, but he'd had two beers and was a bit bored. Seeing the earthworm, he felt a scientific streak in him and decided to see how many pieces he could divide it into and still live. Poor George was already in four pieces before he realized what was happening.

"George, run!" shouted Walker the chicken.

"Well, bye, Walker!" shouted George Thirty-Three, Thirty-Six, and

Thirty-Seven. The rest had already hid underground.

"Bye! Oh, and tell Fourth I'll come back on Wednesday.

" "Okay, I'll pass it on. Bye-bye!" shouted George Earthworm Forty-Three,

disappearing into the ground.

"Twelve," gasped the rooster, Rafał.

"But they'll have to count," muttered Walker. "Now they'll probably buy that computer...

" "What?"

"What, 'what'? Oh, nothing, I was saying to myself.

"Twelve pieces! And all alive!" Rafał was clearly fascinated by the question. Chicken Walker looked at him with disgust.

"Old drunk...

" "What?

" "And deaf, too.

" "Speak louder, I can't hear a thing when you mutter like that.

" "Merry Christmas!

" "Ah, merry, merry," Rafał said absently.

Suddenly the meaning of Walker's words dawned on him.

"What do you mean 'merry'?" Have you gone mad???

"Why?

" "What's so merry about Christmas?

" "Well, people always say that...

" "Do I look like a human being?" the rooster said indignantly. "Some rejoice, others

die. That's life, boy. They rejoice, we die. If that's how it has to be, then so be it, but 'merry Christmas' is a gross exaggeration.

" "Hmm, and you were rejoicing just a moment ago.

" "What am I supposed to do? Sit down and cry?" That's all I have left before they kill me. Gotta get something out of this life, right? Enjoy what I can.

"Like killing earthworms?"

Rafał's small eyes widened at Walker.

"They're just earthworms.

" "Right. They die, we're happy.

" "I told you, boy: that's life.

" "Yes, but it's not life that kills and tortures those earthworms, it's you.

" "I don't kill them!

" "You kill!

" "I don't kill!!

" "What were you doing just now?

" "It was a science experiment!

" "Yeah? Do you know why people kill us? Because it's tradition! You think you're better than them?! You sadist! You're just like them! Do you hear that? You're like a human!"

A large group of gawkers had already gathered around Walker's chicken, yellow as a marigold, and Rafał's rooster, swaying slightly on its legs. Among them was Kasia the frog, keenly interested in everything happening in the yard. She was now sitting in the mud, picking her nose, and observing the scene with curiosity.

At Walker's last words, a murmur went through the crowd. Calling a rooster a "human"! What audacity! What nerve! What an insult! Everyone waited in suspense to see what would happen next. Some began placing bets. Kasia pulled out a notebook.

After these last words, Rafał screeched his beak, clenched his wings, and lunged at Walker's chicken. For a split second, he looked very menacing, but unfortunately, he moved too quickly, lost his balance, staggered, half-ran, half-flew two meters, and then tripped over Kasia, who, trying to get a good view of the fight, got too close. He fell under the yellow chicken's paws, slicing George Forty-One, who had just emerged from the ground, with his beak.

Chicken Walker looked at Rafał with disgust, spat, turned, and walked away. The rooster lay in the mud, trying to think of a way to quickly escape this foolish situation. He looked at Kasia. The frog knew perfectly well what was about to happen. She shrieked and charged like lightning toward the pond. Rafał now directed all his anger at the frog. He stood up, crowed loudly, sending shivers down everyone's spines (or in some other anatomically related place), and gave chase, cursing like crazy. Thus ended the duel between Chicken Walker and Rooster Rafał.

Chicken Walker, meanwhile, had gone to the shed for a special meeting. On that day, an important decision was to be made regarding tomorrow: Easter. Walker was the initiator of the action planned for tomorrow. The only thing standing between the plan and its implementation was today's vote. The incident with Rafał

was very convenient for Walker.

The shed began to fill up. The gray took on a yellow hue, which grew ever stronger, ever juicier, until finally the entire hall seemed to be drowning in the yellow of chickens, of which so many had arrived that there was no room left. Chickens were present not only from the local backyard, but also from several nearby ones—and they wanted their say in an issue so important to the chicken community.

Once everyone had taken their seats, the chairman welcomed those present. He briefed the audience on the agenda, the main part of which was a speech

by Walker the chicken and the vote. After the introduction and the organizational matters, Walker finally spoke. A perfect silence fell upon the hall.

"Chicken!" the speaker began. "You all know why we're gathered here. You all know the details of the 'Yellow' project, so I'll get to the point without further ado.

I know many of you are skeptical about the whole thing. I know many of you want to live a peaceful, honest, and dignified life. I know many of you don't want to endanger yourselves and your families. Believe me, my dream is to live a safe and peaceful life.

Walker took a strategic break here to drink from a puddle and gauge the audience's mood. Everyone listened in silence and concentration.

"Fuckers!" he continued. "They're humiliating us! They're stripping us of our dignity! They're laughing at us, making us into toys, little yellow chicks! I don't need to tell you, you know it well!"

An angry murmur rippled through the hall—the speaker's words were having an effect.

"Who takes us seriously? No one! Is it our fault we look like this? Who sees a philosopher, a poet, a scientist in a sweet, yellow chick? No one! No one takes us seriously!

" The yellowness rippled like a sea, and angry voices rose: "Scandal!" "We won't be humiliated!" "Unexpected!"

"We want peace, we want to live peacefully and honestly, but we want people to treat us as we deserve—with due respect. We have every right to do so!"

Walker lowered his voice.

"But whose fault is it that people deny us this right? Well, whose, I ask you?"

The speaker looked silently around the room. No one spoke.

"Ours. It's our fault, Mr. Chickens. People see only our sweet yellowness in us, and they see it because we allow it. And by allowing it, we encourage it. It is we who rob ourselves of our own rights."

Walker took another sip from the puddle.

"Tomorrow we will have the opportunity to show the whole world that we are more than just yellow Easter chicks. Tomorrow we can earn respect for ourselves, make the concept of the 'Easter chick' disappear once and for all. It's up to you to make that happen."

There was silence for a second, then a veritable storm of applause erupted. The hall roared with applause, whistles, and loud cheers, the air was yellow with feathers and down. This lasted over three minutes. Then the vote took place. The result was almost unanimous. Chicken Walker won, and the "Yellow" operation was to take place tomorrow at nine a.m.

The next day, preparations began at sunrise. By eight a.m., the yard was full of chickens from all over the neighborhood. Grzegorz, an old eagle, happened to be flying by, looked down at the familiar yard, and what he saw made his blood run cold. The ground was yellow. Grzegorz was already very old, he had sclerosis, suffered from brain atrophy, and was utterly clueless. Moreover, he believed he was, in fact, a rat that had sprouted wings. The yellow surface before his eyes had a profoundly stimulating effect on his old, worn-out brain. Brain currents slowly flowed forward, and the process of association began. After just a few seconds, Grzegorz reached an astonishing conclusion, which he expressed in these words:

"Oh my God! I have jaundice!"

Grzegorz the Eagle was later reportedly seen asking everyone he met in the air for the nearest rat hospital. This information, however, is uncertain, as it was provided by Kasia the Frog, and its credibility, as is well known, is questionable.

Meanwhile, it was approaching nine o'clock. All the chickens were already in their designated places.

At precisely nine in the morning, the farmer, Justyna, emerged from his cottage and stood on the porch. The farmer's name had previously been Nowak, but he had once watched an episode of the TV series "Chłopi" (The Peasants) and really liked the main character, a certain Boryna. So Nowak went to the office with the intention of changing his name to Boryna, but when he got there, he forgot what name he had in mind; he only remembered that it ended in "-yna." When asked by the clerk what name he had chosen, he replied:

- ...yna!

- How do you say?

"Nuu... something... -yna!

" "What?! Are you kidding?"

The host was furious.

"I'm a calm man, but my paw is heavy! Write your own there, ma'am, I already know my own there! How does that name end in -yna go?

- Justyna???

- Oh, exactly!" the host rejoiced. "You're right!

" "But it's...

" "Write it there!

" "But!...

" "Write it, ma'am, I say! Because my paw is heavy!"

And so Mr. Nowak became Mr. Justyna.

So at nine o'clock on Easter morning, the host, Justyna, stood on the porch and, in surprise, dropped the prayer book he had with him, as he did every Sunday, to the ten o'clock mass. Before him stretched a sea of ​​chickens, but not yellow at all. They were gray, dirty, and wet. He looked at them more closely: they were all covered in mud.

Justyna, the farmer, was a calm man who respected tradition. He liked order and disliked change. The sight of thousands of muddy chickens standing still in his yard was a shock beyond his endurance.

He fainted.

Walker the chicken raised his wing. Everyone stared at him. Walker looked around triumphantly and with a quick movement lowered his arm. At this signal, a powerful, sky-rocketing cry rose from everyone's lungs. A cry of victory and triumph, stifled by the dark years of slavery, now finally emerged. A cry filled with a sense of injustice and suffering, a symbol of everything that lies like a painful splinter in every chicken's heart:

"Damn Christmas!!!"

Hotel

Jan K. opened his eyes and looked around; he immediately realized he was in a dingy, stinking room. The walls, once covered in wallpaper, now stripped bare, glowed in the morning sun. The floor—wooden boards eaten away by woodworm and littered with various debris—also caught the scent of human feces; it was unclear where they came from, but a person can always tell if feces were human or animal. In any case, Jan, though slightly disoriented, quickly located the excrement: it was lying in the corner of the room, covered with an old issue of "Polityka." A reflexive distaste spread across Jan K.'s face, twisting his lips in a way he himself would never have consciously done. He choked, also reflexively. The windows were boarded up, probably with boards from the floor. Only the aforementioned rays of sunlight filtered through the large cracks. "But where the hell is the door?" Jan K. wondered. His gaze drifted to the mattress leaning against the wall, which had probably fed a whole army of moths in the past. It was upright, so it made sense what lay behind it. The man grabbed the mattress with his right hand and tossed it aside. The door, or rather a common hole in the wall, led to the hallway. There, the floor was in the same condition as the room, but less stable, inviting Jan K. to explore the house. Jan K. didn't let such suggestions slip, taking his steps carefully, one by one. The floor creaked under his leather shoes, his designer suit fit his shoulders slightly.

The hallway was about fifteen meters long and curved to the left (from the hero's perspective). The rooms were evenly spaced, like a hotel. "Maybe this used to be a hotel," Jan K. thought. Each room looked the same: full of trash, windows boarded up with boards "borrowed" from the floor. Oddly enough, each room contained feces. Always covered by the "Polityka" number…

Jan K. counted a total of twelve rooms. He also found a staircase, rickety, treacherous, but unique. Jan K.'s conclusion was based on the conclusion that he was on the first floor. The ground floor, or rather the stairs leading there, was the first and almost last escape route. The stairs, wooden and twisted with long-rusted screws, creaked with even the lightest step. There was no light in the corridor, let alone on the stairs, no "light at the end of the tunnel." Jan K. had to rely on his own instincts and intuition. He stumbled twice, once heard and felt a step (or part of it) break off and fall down. Finally, he reached the bottom, but there were no light sources there either; he had already noticed this on the stairs; so he reached out and touched the wall. He felt a brick wall.

Taking risks and carefully planning each step, he moved like a blind man, tracing the wall with his hand, searching for windows, doors, or even a hole in the wall. Unfortunately, he only felt certain depressions in the wall, certain alcoves.The feel was different there; as if the walls had been recently added at those points.

The ground floor consisted of a large hall and a small room (according to Jan K., it was the reception desk). There was no exit, no descent to the basement, although such hotels usually had basements.

"But what does the phrase 'such hotels' mean?" Jan K. asked himself

. "I don't even know if this is a hotel!" he said aloud.

He climbed the rickety stairs, again by feel, into the stench of the shit left there, but also into the light that always helped Jan think.

Once he felt the gentle warmth of the sun on his face, his mind returned to a state that allowed for logic and sobriety.

Unfortunately, even now Jan K. was unable to understand anything. Nothing but the numbing thought that someone, no one knew who, had walled Jan K. up in some old building.

Jan K. put aside the question of who this psychopath was and what his goal was for the time being. Now, rightly, he was thinking about escaping this gloomy place.

He peered through a gap between the boards. The sun blinded him. He squinted and tried to see what was below. But the sun was gaining strength, heading toward its midday zenith.

Jan K. stuck his fingers into the crack, gripped the board as tightly as he could, and pulled. The board tilted slightly but didn't fall off. The nails, though rusted, still served their purpose. Jan K. didn't give up, however. He tugged twice more, and the board gave way. Impatiently, he tossed it aside, pressed his face against the enlarged opening, and surveyed the situation. It looked even higher than the first floor, but he still didn't know what lay directly below. Beyond, however, he saw a dense forest. Through the blinding light, he saw leaves and branches fluttering in the wind.

"More boards..."

He began tearing away more sections of the floor; on the fourth board, a large splinter lodged in his thumb. He grimaced slightly and quickly, absentmindedly, removed the stick from his finger. After a few more minutes, a pile of boards had formed near the window. Jan K. stood in the frame and looked down. He saw a surface that had probably once been called a lawn. Now it was barren earth, further slashed with sticks. From this height, the man couldn't make out what it was. He looked to the side. Mysterious pillars stretched the entire width of the building. Suddenly, Jan realized he was at the height of the second floor. Apparently, the "reception" was on the first floor. Never mind. "I have to get down," he thought frantically. "

I'm like Robinson Crusoe. Except he was trapped on a normal island. My island is concrete."

Suddenly, he felt a touch on his back. He quickly turned his head, but he didn't have time to see what, or who, had touched him. A split second later, all he saw was a figure, or rather, its outline. It was now standing where he had been a moment ago. Jan K., on the other hand, was falling. He was falling down. Right into those mysterious sticks.

He felt a searing pain around his liver. Then in his lungs, but then he hit the ground. He still felt that. He opened his eyes and saw a modest, black cross standing right next to him. His left side burned with blinding pain. Or perhaps the sun was still doing its thing? He experienced an epiphany: the right arm of the cross had dug into his side. Now that he knew what had happened, the pain seemed to intensify. From that moment on, a terrible flood of thoughts began to flood his mind. One was the conviction that he was about to expire. The other, that he was in a cemetery. He also noticed that no shortcuts from his life flashed before his eyes. He forced himself to recall them. A happy childhood in his family home, meeting Kamila while studying economics, his first successes at work, starting his own company, the first signs of boredom with life and his wife in particular, meeting Angela, the attractive secretary from his own office (what a cliché), a passionate romance, and a quest for Kamila. And so a short film titled "Jan K. 53 Years of Triviality" appeared before his eyes. I'm dying. Nothing else is left. Where is the regret? Where is the sadness?

His body was undergoing a slow, final paralysis, but he forced himself to look at the deadly cross; at the small metal plaque. It bore a small, white inscription: "Kazimierz M., grateful for the gift of fate, which is death." "

Oh God…

Now he understood the last, yet most important thing in his life: he would die, killed by his own sins, and rest among his kind. Too bad.

The Little Owl

 

. A small red alarm clock informed me that it was already 4:30 a.m. and time to set off for the forest. The night was unusually warm for mid-October. A crescent moon cast a faint light on the forest floor, rustling with withered leaves. It was an hour and a half's walk to the Kosy Most forest range in the northern part of the Białowieża Forest. I decided to arrive before dawn, hoping to spot the bison whose fresh tracks I had seen on the Narewka River the previous day. Hiking in near-complete darkness, I was wondering which direction to approach the herd from without being noticed, when the tracks of an old forest railway, dating back to World War I, loomed in the distance. From the intersection of the track and the narrow-gauge railway, the bridge was only a short walk of about fifteen minutes. I slowed down, trying to walk as quietly as possible, when a loud crack of breaking branches reached me from my left. I stopped, trying to guess whose hooves were pressing into the soft forest soil. After a moment, the crackling sound repeated a little closer to the road, 10 or 15 meters from where I'd stopped. Silence. We looked at each other, but I couldn't see anything, and the animal had me on the gravel road like a frying pan. I decided to continue, having given up hope that the owner of the hooves would come out of the thicket and introduce himself. Approaching my destination, I wondered: was it a bison, or a deer, watching me from the depths of the darkness, or perhaps some exceptionally large boar had made such a racket? The animal's behavior and the location of the encounter pointed more towards a bison, which, with over three hundred bulls, cows, and young bison, reign supreme over the Białowieża forest. When I finally reached Kosy Most, the eastern sky began to fade slightly, illuminating the marshy meadows where the bushy willows perched like witches. The silence is ringing in my ears; no bird, no other animal, not even the wind dares disturb this magical moment when night gives way to day. I stand frozen, waiting for dawn, wondering what sound will open the morning concert in the meadows, when a loud crunching sound reaches me from my left. I know that sound well. A beaver is gnawing the bark off a twig. These enormous rodents, growing to thirty kilograms, have their lair here. On both sides of the river, the characteristically cut trunks of alders and oaks, paths crushed by their heavy tails, and piles of cut branches remind me that beavers have taken possession of this patch of forest.

As I strained my eyes to spot the feasting beaver, the sounds of snapping twigs could be heard from the nearby oak grove. At that same moment, a wild boar trotted out of the oak grove, crackling with deadwood, onto the narrow path. The black animal, weighing about 120 kilograms, turned the wheel, huffed, and that was all that was visible. News of the intruder must have immediately reached the herd, which, grunting, slowly retreated into the depths of the old forest. The day was increasingly taking possession of the world. The shadows were shortening, gradually dissolving into a pale glow. I set off toward a vast, wild meadow that had hosted at least a few bison yesterday. I stopped at the edge of the willow thickets. Familiar images began to flash through the glasses of my old East German Zeiss with its exceptionally clear lenses. The morning mist suffused the ribbon of the Narewka River, a patch of reeds, clumps of sedges, and a high, jagged wall of mixed forest. Empty, no sign of bison. A jay squawked warningly from a clump of willows, and a startled flock of long-tailed tits rose from an ancient hornbeam. These small, graceful birds resemble cotton balls, to which Mother Nature has attached thin, long tails and miniature beaks. Goldcrests call to each other in the crown of an old spruce. These smallest European birds weigh significantly less than a box of matches. By comparison, a white-tailed eagle can grow up to 6 kilograms, and its wingspan is over two and a half meters.

Suddenly, from behind me, I hear a low, two-syllable whistle. At first, my memory fails me; I have no idea what animal is announcing its arrival. As my gaze wandered toward the source of the sonorous sound, I spotted the distinctive silhouette of an owl in the crown of a dead alder tree. Calling this bird an owl evokes associations with something at least medium-sized. This, however, is a dwarf owl, a true dwarf of the owl family. This agile predator, a terror of tits, goldcrests, and other small birds, is barely larger than a sparrow.

The owl perched motionless on a thin branch, and I gazed at it, captivated. I had long dreamed of meeting this beautiful and unique bird, much easier to hear than to see in the dense forest. My joy was short-lived, however. A tawny owl hooted from a nearby old-growth stand. Before the last phrase of the song had faded, the pygmy owl glided toward the nearest undergrowth, avoiding its ten-times-larger cousin.

In Poland, the pygmy owl is a true rarity for birdwatchers. There are no more than 250-300 pairs in the entire country, most of which inhabit mountainous regions. My friend Artur Domaszewicz, who has devoted many years to studying this delicate owl, estimates that the Białowieża Forest is currently inhabited by no more than 25-30 pairs of these diminutive owls, most of which inhabit the Białowieża National Park, also known as the Strict Nature Reserve. This distribution of pygmy owls within the forest is certainly not accidental. It is in the Reserve that they find their favorite habitats – old, healthy, moist forests with a large proportion of spruce. In recent years, due to the cutting down of old-growth trees and the drastic drop in groundwater levels, the proportion of old, moist forests in the forest has significantly decreased. If we don't stop the forest from drying out and the oldest trees from being cut down, birds, especially the pygmy owl, eagle owl, and eagles, will gradually become extinct.

The pygmy owl stands out among Polish owls not only for its small size but also for its preference for diurnal activity. At night, this delicate owl has even poorer vision than humans, forcing it to hunt during the day. However, pygmy owls prefer to hunt at dawn and dusk. Their most common prey are common forest birds such as tits, finches, robins, and small rodents, especially the bank vole. This type of lighting seems to suit the owls best, as it resembles the nights this species has encountered for hundreds of generations in the taiga, their original habitat. Its small size and preference for daytime hunting are not the only distinctive features of this species. When threatened, a pygmy owl won't abandon its chicks, as even an eagle owl fifty times its weight would. Caught in a nest, which is usually a cavity carved by a woodpecker, it clings to the nest and attempts to deter the intruder by snapping its small, hooked beak. In most owls, chicks hatch at intervals of one to several days. This causes significant size differences between siblings and creates intense competition between them. In years when food is scarce, and this situation in nature is more the rule than the exception, smaller and weaker birds often die in unequal competition for food with their larger siblings. In pygmy owl families, all chicks hatch and leave the cavity almost simultaneously, and—another exception among owls—they are adept fliers from the start.

The Białowieża Forest isn't the only area where the pygmy owl occurs in Podlasie. Quite close, just a few kilometers from the provincial capital, Białystok, in the Knyszyn forests, in spring and autumn, you can hear the distinctive, flute-like, two-syllable whistle with which the male pygmy owl "marks" his 1-2 square kilometer territory. Hearing this melodic call, it's worth stopping for a moment and looking around, giving yourself the chance to get to know this miniature predator better.