The Infinite Starr

They say the bird stopped singing.
What they do not say is why it was ever quiet.

Look closer.
The loudest judgments never come from the sky.

The birds who know how to fly do not mock a wing that is resting.
They understand feathers heal.
They understand hunger that sharpens, not starves.
They understand why a flock sometimes thins.

It is the birds pacing the wire who scream the most.
They call saving seed greed.
They call resting weakness.
They call solitude arrogance.
They call discipline obsession.

Somewhere below the perch, a voice keeps telling the forest that you are the problem.
Funny how that voice never leaves the cage.

If you were meant to be in another sky, you would already feel the wind.
No wrong branch.
No misstep.
No accident in the way a wing learns its span.

The riddle is not why the bird stayed.
The riddle is why the cage began to feel like home.

Comfort is a clever jailer.
It lines the bars with familiarity.
It whispers that flight is risky and stillness is safety.
It teaches the bird to decorate the prison instead of question it.

The bird hears laughter outside and calls it judgment.
But it is not laughter.
It is altitude.

Those who have flown do not look down to sneer.
They look forward.

So when the cage rattles and the bird grows quiet, do not mistake it for fear.
That is listening.
That is remembering the weight of the sky.

And when the door opens, the forest will not applaud.
It never does.

It will simply make room.