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.