Stoppelmann
Member
- Location
- Germany
The fluffy coils of feathers twist—
aerial dancers in sunlight's kiss—
doing aerobatics through our garden air,
throwing us into conundrum,
for who among us
could mimic such tricks,
even in the mind’s vast theatre?
If we are quiet—
watchful, still—
they flit about their business
with wary eyes,
then snap a seed near our feet,
or bathe in the water
we’ve kindly poured.
Even fresh from the nest,
mouths still glossed with meal,
they learn the rhythm of the sky,
their tiny frames
adapting to flight
as though instinct were a language
handed down in winds.
Look—
a larger bird waits,
pondering how the smaller
reach the unreachable,
and beneath,
it lingers with patience,
eyeing crumbs
like prayers fallen from grace.
What brings this wonder before our eyes?
What guides such minute beings,
weaving them in shared, invisible thread?
If it is coincidence—
then what a glorious coincidence.
If accident—
then what a glorious accident.
May we, too, be flung by mystery
and learn to soar.
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