I begin
again
and again—
a human rhythm
of faltering
and returning,
losing
and remembering.

And the very fact
that I know
I am beginning
is the distance
between myself
and the sparrow.

Who rises
without hesitation,
moves
without reflection,
returns
without naming it.

She does not
measure
her starts.
She does not
name the place
she lands.

She knows
no other way
but the one
she is already living:
a continual
unfolding
so natural
it cannot be called
beginning
at all.

And standing here,
watching her lift
into the quiet morning,
I feel the soft ache
of being human—
aware of every step,
yet longing
for her effortless
flight.