The sky grows wide, the days grow thin,
The gold leaves loosen from the trees
And something ancient stirs within
The birds who ride the autumn breeze.

No map to guide them through the blue,
No promise of the warmth to come
Only a knowing, deep and true,
That calls them toward another sun.

They do not grieve the fields they leave,
Nor ask the wind how far, how long.
They gather what the heart believes
And lift their lives into a song.

Perhaps the soul is much the same
A wing, a wind, an open sky
And when the season calls our name,
We learn, at last, to trust and fly.