Two hands clasped together, one with a small black fine line tree tattoo on the middle finger and the other with a tiny owl tattoo on a finger.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Tree and owl tattoos on fingers

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two hands are held together against a blurred background, one showing a small tree with bare branches and the other a tiny owl with feather detail. The linework is thin and dark grey to black, with light shading in the trunk and owl body. The tattoos are small and centred on the fingers, with the soft focus keeping attention on the hands.

Fine line Hand Tree Owl Finger Hand

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody in Harrowby Dean could remember the elm on Ferrier's Knoll ever having leaves. It stood bare above the sheep pasture, its branches forked like the fingers of someone reaching for a thing just out of reach, and the flock had long since learnt to graze around its roots. Old Mags Tulliver swore the tawny owl had been roosting in its hollow since before the blight, and that the tree and the bird had struck a bargain no living person had witnessed.

Keep reading

Her grandson Ned didn't believe a word of it. He was nine and wanted to see things for himself, so one dusk in November he climbed the stile with a torch and a paper bag of oat biscuits his mother had baked for the church sale. He sat at the base of the trunk and waited. The owl came down on soundless feathers, regarded the biscuits with plain contempt, then turned its round face to him and stayed exactly where it was.

The wind rose. The torch flickered and died, and in the dark Ned felt the trunk shift against his back, a long slow creak like a door swinging on an old hinge. He understood then that the elm was not dead at all. It was keeping watch, the way a farmhouse keeps one window lit for whoever is out on the hill after dark, and the owl was the lamp it had been trusted to hold.

He walked home by the dry-stone wall, counting the gates as Mags had taught him. She was waiting at the kitchen table with the kettle just beginning to sing. He told her the owl had stayed. She only nodded and poured the tea. Behind him on the knoll, one soft hoot climbed into the bare branches, and the elm kept its silence.