Wingbound Line Wingbound

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It leaves at dawn, feet lifting off dust roads still warm from yesterday’s sun—earth letting go, so it can carry what earth cannot hold.

Below, a river moves without it, water going one way while the bird goes another, neither stopping, both still arriving somewhere.

Then the clouds take it in—air erasing the shape of it for a while, until it is only a message with wings, until it finds its way back out the other side.

And at the hottest hour, fire finds it—sun pressed flat against feathers, the whole sky burning gold around one small, certain shape.

Earth, water, air, fire—it moves through all of them so one line can reach one heart.

Still coming home.

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