Post by CEDARS DAIRY (@cedar25)

THE BIRDS THAT NEST IN SMALL ROOMS

There are birds too large for the cages they were born in.Not because the cage is cruel, but because the sky keeps remembering them. So they sing. Not to escape but to keep their wings from forgetting the language of the wind.

Some rivers dream in oceans while learning the patience of a clay pot. They circle themselves, kiss the same stones, borrow the same moon each night, yet somewhere beneath the earth they are already becoming a tide.

The seed is often accused of being still. Only the soil knows how much movement looks like silence. There are mountains hidden inside pebbles, cathedrals folded into dust, lightning asleep in ordinary clouds.

Not every greatness announces itself with thunder.
Some arrive wearing the clothes of repetition.
Perhaps that is why the loudest loneliness is not the absence of people. It is when a mind keeps knocking on doors its body has not yet reached.

When tomorrow arrives too early in the heart and yesterday still owns the road. So the moon keeps company with the tide, never touching, yet forever pulling. So the horizon keeps flirting with the traveller, never arriving, yet never lying.

And still, morning comes.

The bird keeps singing. The river keeps remembering. The seed keeps listening. The wind keeps rehearsing the name of every leaf. For destiny, like music, is rarely written for the impatient ear. It is hidden between breath and becoming where the soul learns that waiting is not the opposite of movement but its quietest rhythm

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