Birds do not ask the wind for permission.
They feel the change before it arrives — in the hush of the trees, in the shift of the stars.
When the time comes, they leave. Not because they are lost, but because they remember:
Movement is part of survival.
The elders say:
“Birds do not fear distance. They trust the sky to hold them.”
Each wingbeat is a promise — that there is always something waiting beyond the cold.
They do not carry maps. They carry memory.
Memory written in feathers, wind, and songs passed from beak to beak.
And so they fly — not away from home,
but toward the next place it will become.
If you ever feel the need to leave something behind,
watch the birds.
They do not mourn the branch.
They follow the wind —
and call it faith.
