They say she was once the color of quiet ash — a bird unnoticed, small among the tall trees of the North.
She did not seek the sky like others did. She moved close to the branches, listening more than singing, watching more than flying.
One spring, in the time between frost and thaw, a quarrel broke out between the birds of the forest — over who would carry the first light of day.
The swallow did not shout. She did not claw or peck. She only flew — straight through the sap of the great pine that stood watching.
The resin clung to her feathers, thick and golden. But when she rose again, the sunlight touched her wings... and they turned the color of the clear sky.
Blue.
Not the blue of oceans. Not the blue of storms. The blue of hope — quiet, soft, becoming.
The others stared, silent. They had fought to be noticed. She became the dawn itself.
From then on, the elders say, the blue swallow carries more than songs — she carries the memory of transformation.
She visits when the world is shifting. When something old is being shed. When you are not who you were, and not yet who you will be.
Her wings do not push the wind. They ride it, surrendering to the current of change.
And where she lands, she whispers:
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