Three Birds at the Bird Bath
The birds were already there when I looked up, the bath in the far corner of the yard, half in light, half left out of it. A wren came first. Small. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren’t watching. She dipped, drank, then flicked water from her wings like it didn’t belong to her. Then the mourning dove... gray in that way that takes in light without giving it back. She stepped in slow, not timid, just used to being careful. Didn’t drink right away. Stood there a moment, as if listening to something under the surface. The robin came last. Not proud…
Three Sparrows in the Street
They were already at it, three sparrows in the street, wings snapping against the rain, something small between them worth the trouble.
The Part They Skip
The years teach you this: success isn’t earned at the finish, but in the days no one remembers. No one told me success would move like winter... so slow you notice the thaw only when your breath no longer clouds the glass.
The Long Coffee Break
The months tilt toward their own horizon, and I can feel the gentle pull - not quite an ending, more a change in scenery.
