(Expanded)
Or maybe it was me.
But either way,
a branch shook,
a wing flinched,
and I remembered
how many kinds of flight
begin in stillness.
There was no music.
No lesson.
No divine interruption—
just the quick tilt
of a feathered body
against the morning,
like punctuation
of a sentence I hadn’t finished.
I almost forgot
to open the door.
But I did.
And the air
smelled like something
I used to believe in.
The bird was gone
by then,
of course.
But the branch
still moved.
And in that small sway
was a question
I didn’t need to answer.
Just feel.
Just carry.
