In spring, the air receives birdsong as a promise of return. In autumn, the air answers back with rustling leaves, crisp winds, golden light, and the scent of ripened fruits. Migration doesn’t leave silence but a swelling reply from the earth, alive with harvest and change.
The days grow shorter, shadows lengthen, and the sky begins its slow shift. Celestial cues guide wings southward, just as they stir seeds in the soil to rest. Departure is not haste but rhythm — a call and response belonging to both bird and season.
days getting shorter
sun and stars celestial cues
a hush of leaving—
cranes stretch their wings to rise
where courage leans into light
the horizon opens wide
Preparation is everywhere. Cranes test their wings against thinning skies, their cries carrying both farewell and continuity. Fields echo with abundance — grain heavy on stalks, berries flushed and ripe, trees releasing fruit. The season offers its gifts even as it readies for rest.
To witness this is to know migration is not loss but exchange. Birds carry the memory of these skies, just as the air holds their voices long after they vanish. The horizon does not close with their leaving; it opens, reminding us that every departure is stitched with return.
When the air sings back, it’s not with sadness but fullness, an anthem of reciprocity — the earth keeping rhythm with wings.
PS: Writing these impressions makes me realise migration happens with birds and writing, carrying our feelings through the mind, linking what we feel inside with the world outside. Autumn’s approaching migration influenced this piece, a contrast to Home Is A Moving Thing. Where spring sang of return, today I listen for the air’s reply in departure, and the lessons nature whispers in between.
In what ways are you adapting to the subtle seasonal transition and drawing strength from nature? As always, I love hearing from you.
PPS: Feature Photo by Jeffrey Hamilton on Unsplash
