There may be no bird
more suited to the bedtime story
than the bushtit—
round and fluffy,
a wind-chime lullaby beneath the enchanted canopy,
small enough to fit in a toddler’s palm,
inviting even the weariest eyes to close.
Born into a kinship,
into the closeness of held community—
one breath—
they fly as if in a heart-formation,
a hologram of unity,
embodying the dreams of a village.
Tiny gatherers,
they huddle their hearts together
in a soft, suspended refuge of hope—
woven from hush,
spiderweb,
and moonlight.
I grew up in the absence of flock—
my family scattered like shards of colored glass, beautiful but broken,
exiled from the nest by war and silence, belonging only to loss.
My hands are covered in scars from trying to gather the pieces,
cut open again and again as I tried to tend to what could not be held.
Then came the bushtits—
small bodies moving as one breath, one rhythm,
weaving suspended homes from hush and spiderweb.
In them, I saw the shape of the village my heart still remembers.
They became my teachers in softness, in staying close.
Medicine for the scattered kin.
