Many Little Birds

So many little birds—
Hiding in the trees like thoughts waiting to be known.
Why have they visited today?
Why have I noticed them in this way?

They dance together as one,
moving like my breath, like the breeze,
trusting in the air, trusting in each other,
never appearing to ask where to go.

Do they move by instinct, or is it intuition?
Is there a primal connection between them, and perhaps me?
Do they wonder if the wind will fail them,
or are they focused only on this moment, this survival?

Sheltered in the trees,
no fear of shadows that stretch and shift.
They greet me with chirps in the pines and Chamisas,
a harmony sewn into the foothills of the Sandias.

Their voices fill the spaces where silence once rested.
They do not ask where the wind will take them.
It is enough to feel its embrace,
to exist in the shelter of the branches.

Do they ever doubt their wings,
as I can doubt my own steps?
Their presence wraps around me—
A blanket of connection,
warm like the cup of coffee in my hands.

I feel their song, a quiet joy,
and in their community,
I feel present with my family.

But in the stillness,
I know the weight of this time—
the isolation pressing in,
the questions I can’t escape.

The questions circle like the wind—
where do I go from here?
The birds find shelter easily,
but where is mine?

Family, friends, and ancestral memories,
just birds in a flock with connections.
Work connections come and go, fleeting as the breeze,
while family remains.

Am I flying amongst them or watching from below?
Isolation came as a weighted surprise,
But hiding in the bushes is not the answer.

Do I think too much?
Perhaps they are here to help me just be.
To feel the wind through pine needles,
the scent of earth after rain,
the warmth of presence without needing answers.

There’s freedom in their flight,
A fragile kind of joy.
I ask myself:
What lies beyond the next gust of wind?
What branch will they land on when the sun fades?
And where do I fit into their vast migration?

Like ripples on still water,
they tremble through the air,
expanding outward, touching everything,
yet leaving no trace.

The ripple and retreat of wings,
their shadows on branches and leaves,
the fleeting connection to something larger,
yet invisible.

Will they return to the trees they’ve left behind,
or is home wherever they choose to land?
In their fluttering, I see myself—
carried by currents I cannot control,
but trusting, always trusting,
that I will find my way.

The feel of the wind against my skin,
the pull toward something unknown,
the quiet certainty that I am not lost—
just moving, just being.

But what if I’m now meant to wander,
trusting the currents, unsure of home?

A family of nomads,
In a land of uncertainty.
Trusting one another,
On the Open Road.