Does a bird look at the sun to choose where it sits? Does it politely ask the leaves to move for it as it perches, warming only the coldest feathers in the golden shade? Is a calculation of rest what guides it, an approximation of its divinity?
If not, is it the wind, then? Would it carry its tiny body to where it belongs, carefully and beautifully making space for the nest to form? Does the tree softly shiver in anticipation of the next step in existence, a step it has made and was made for it?
Questions without answers are nothing but torture, a path into the self that leads nowhere, songs of mockery and chaos. But does the bird care? It sings nonetheless.
©another
A