Even the Birds Know

I understand,

in a way my bones remember,

why birds

loosen their grip

on bare branches

and follow the sun

south.

Migration

is not escape.

It is obedience

to wisdom

older than language.

A knowing

that says—

stay too long

in the wrong season

and even your song

will freeze.

My body

knows this.

My mind

croons it quietly.

Harmony

is not stillness.

It is movement

timed to survival.

Winter

comes with sharp teeth—

air

that bites inspiration

mid-thought.

Days

stretched thin

and dim.

Nights

heavy with reflection

that turns cruel

if left alone

too long.

Cold settles

into the spirit,

whispering doubt,

coating joy

in frost,

asking

a flowery soul

to bloom

without light.

But we come

from travelers.

From people

who learned

when to move.

When to carry warmth

inside the chest.

When to follow

the promise

of fertile ground.

So if I drift

toward softness,

toward color,

toward heat—

it is not weakness.

It is ancestral intelligence.

Even the birds know.

Creativity

needs sun.

And I, too,

am allowed

to seek it.