The Bird

The Bird

The bird waits on the branch without hurry,

light enough not to bend the wood beneath it.

Its body is small, but certain of itself,

balanced between leaving and staying.

Feathers lie smooth, arranged by habit,

colours settled, not asking to be seen.

Nothing about it strains for attention,

it exists as it is, and that is enough.

The head turns slightly at a passing sound,

eyes bright, taking note, then letting go.

It knows the difference between danger and noise,

between what matters and what will pass.

The air holds still around it for a moment,

as if waiting for a decision to be made.

Then the bird sings, not to fill the space,

but because the space is already there.

The sound is brief and unadorned,

a single thread placed into the morning.

It does not linger or ask to be kept,

it moves on, leaving nothing behind.

The bird settles again, quieter now,

chest rising with a steady rhythm.

There is no story attached to its waiting,

no lesson folded into its pause.

When it leaves, it does so cleanly,

air closing where it once had been.

The branch remains, unchanged and patient,

holding only the memory of weight.