The Courage to Migrate

I saw a dream.

A flock of birds gathered around me.
I set them free. They wandered here and there, testing the sky, touching distant air. And then, one by one, they returned. As if they preferred their home. As if familiarity held a gravity of its own.

It left me with a question.

Am I foolish to want migration, to crave change, to welcome the new?
Who abandons a peaceful shore and throws themselves into turbulent waters?
What if a storm comes and you are left without a raft?

And yet, something in me is migrating.

Something is asking to be shed before the winters are even over, before dawn has fully arrived. I know that when the snow finally stops, I will not be the same.

I am alone at my own funeral.
The only one who bids me goodbye.
While my new self sits outside, waiting patiently for a chance to knock, for permission to come in.

I like migration.

Whenever I see birds moving away, I applaud them.
It is brave to leave what is known.
It is brave to trust the sky.
It is brave to go, even without guarantees.

And perhaps bravery has always looked like this.
Not certainty, not safety.
But movement.