“Like his twisted feathers, his many scars, the reliable old owl chose the gnarled,
weather-beaten, but solid branch often—it being a companion to the wise alone with
the night and the last branch to creak in the heaviest wind. He often came to survey
the fields and the clouds before his hunt, to listen to the steady sound of the stream
passing through reeds under the bridge, while combing his feathers for the
unwanteds—whatever they might be.”
Here is a descriptive essay about a first visit to a favorite diner written by a student
atRoane State Community College:”When entering the door at Lou’s, two things are
immediately noticeable: the place is rarely empty and seems to consist of a maze of
rooms. The first room, through the door, is the main part of the restaurant. There is
another, rarely used, dining room o( to the right. It was added during the oil well
boom of the seventies. Through the main dining room is yet another room; it guards
the door leading into the kitchen. This room contains the most coveted table in the
place. The highest tribute Lou can bestow on anyone is to allow them access to
seats at this table. This table is the family table; it is reserved for Lou’s, and her
daughter Karen’s, immediate family and treasured friends.”
Here is an example of a descriptive essay fromSt. Cloud State:”Billy Rays Pawn Shop
and Lawn Mower Repair looked like a burial ground for country auction rejects. The
blazing, red, diesel fuel tanks beamed in front of the station, looking like cheap
lipstick against the pallid, wrinkled texture of the parking lot sand. The yard, not
much larger than the end zone at General G. Patton High School on the north end of
town, was framed with a rusted metallic hedge of lawn mowers, banana seat
bicycles, and corroded oil drums. It wasnt a calico frame of rusted parts, but rather
an orchestra of unwanted machinery that Billy Ray had arranged into sections. The
yellow-tanked mowers rested silently at the right of the diesel fuel. Once red, now
faded orange, mowers stood at attention to the left. The oil barrels, jaded and
pierced with holes, bellared like chimes when the wind was right. The bikes rested
sporadically throughout the lot. In the middle of it all was the o3ce, a faded, steel
roof supported by cheap two-by-fours and zebra paneling. Billy Ray was at home,
