As winter loosens its grip and autumn steals the green from the land, the birds heed a summons older than kingdoms, older than time’s own breath.
In spring’s soft dawn, pairs slip into quiet corners of forest and meadow, weaving homes twig by twig to cradle new life. The young, fragile as spun glass, know only the warmth of watchful wings. Yet beneath that shelter, strength stirs, and soon they take to the branches, learning the secrets of sky and wind.
Autumn comes, and restlessness seizes them. Skinny and scrappy, they are already travelers, poised to leap into the unknown. Before their elders are ready, destiny hums in their veins, lifting them into the boundless sky. Though they have never flown south, though they know only the woods of their birth, a compass etched into their marrow draws them onward.
At Whigg Meadow, we saw three of these little souls - first-year girls, Magnolia and Tennessee Warblers, each a symbol of that restlessness the world so desperately needs. One was older, born of April’s early brood, her eyes bright with confidence. The other two were still delicate and thin, yet their bodies quivered with anticipation. Their journey was not just survival - it was pilgrimage.
Youth is often said to be wasted on the young, yet in them burns the spark of every spring and autumn: the audacity to trust a road they cannot see, to venture forth with no memory of where they’re going, only faith that home will be found again. Some will not make it, yet their daring keeps life in motion.
And so they took flight, vanishing into the trees, carrying summer’s warmth southward. Home is wherever courage leads you to build it. Life is not only about safe havens, but about answering the call to journey, again and again, borne by faith and restless hope.
