Birds migrate—

20250817

Birds migrate.

Not by decision.

The sky, the season, the hunger—these choose for them.

They go because the world whispers: 𝒈𝒐.

Humans migrate too.

Not with wings, but with necessity.

They follow the echo of a life imagined—

words that sound like choices,

but are often commands.

A bird that stays may perish—

from frost, from famine, from stillness.

A human that stays may perish too.

Not always in flesh.

Sometimes the spirit.

Is staying ever a choice?

Or is it the absence of options?

The roadside tree stands alone.

Its soil was not chosen, only accepted.

Its roots grip out of necessity.

Its shade falls without intention.

The forest tree remains.

It does not stay.

It 𝘪𝘴.