The bird does not sing because it has skill. The bird sings because it has a melody.
It sings because silence too long held becomes ache. It sings as rivers do—without purpose, but with direction. We keep looking for meaning in the rhythm of wings, in the cadence of chirps, as if thesis hides there, as if beauty were a proof awaiting defense. But the bird sings the way fire glows, the way tides reach: not because it must, but because it is.
