The Wisdom of Wings

In the morning, while steam curls from her hibiscus tea,
the birds begin.
A hometown cardinal first, then the chorus—
wren, finch, the small brown sparrow
with nothing but breath and joy to offer.

She listens.
She always has.
Out there among the pink-petaled blooms,
she folds herself into the hush
With a prayer she hopes will be answered—
eventually.

I wonder if they know her name,
those birds,
who sing only when the sky turns soft.
I wonder if they know that once
I loved her so fiercely
I nearly broke into feather.

There are distances birds ignore.
They cross counties and oceans,
riding uncertain winds.
They never ask the questions we do:
Will it last? Will it hurt?
Will the nest still be there when I return?

They simply fly.
And trust that the branch will hold.

She wears a silver ring
etched with two birds—guardians,
companions on her hand. Her shield.
And I?
I am just a shadow on the wire,
hoping,
still drawn to her voice
like the dusk is drawn to the hush before nightfall.

The birds say:
Sing, even if no one answers.
Return, even if the way is long.
Love, even if your wings tremble.

So I do.

And when the pink flowers open again tomorrow,
I will think of her.
Still listening.
Still near.
And I will thank the birds
for the wisdom they know—
that memory is its own kind of flight,
and love,
its own kind of song.