AN ALLEGORY OF RUFFLED FEATHERS

The Birds once knew they were part of something exceptional, a creation so magical it turned heads and captured attention. As they soared high, their songs echoed far and wide, leaving a lasting impression that seemed untouchable.

Showing great pride was easy for the birds.  They puffed their chests, parading their success as if it had been entirely their own. They squawked about their hard work, their unique vision, and how they didn’t need anyone—not even an angel.  And so, they carried on, their pride as bold as their feathers, convincing themselves and anyone who would listen that the magic had always belonged to them.

The problem with this story is that the magic wasn’t something you could fake.  You see, the thing they all had in common is they had met the same angel and this angel loved the birds and unbeknownst to them would whisper sweet melodies in each of their ears.  Once it was time for the angel to fly off to higher skies, The Birds were left trying to replicate their success with their blinding egos as their guardian. They rearranged twigs, fluffed their feathers, and chirped even louder, hoping that if they kept the noise up long enough, no one would notice the difference. Unfortunately for the birds, everyone noticed.

Their new work? Lacked the soul of their previous glory. They scratched their little bird heads, wondering why they weren’t getting the same attention. They told themselves it was the audience, not them. “People don’t appreciate real art anymore,” they chirped bitterly. But deep down—deep, deep down—they knew. The angel had been the one to breathe life into their creation, and now that the angel was gone, all they had left were hollow echoes of what once was.

Before every winter, the Southern Birds gather in their little neighborhood, chirping about plans for the season ahead. They puff their feathers and swap ideas, convincing themselves that next year, things will be different. Then, just before the chill sets in, they take flight, migrating south in search of the magic they once claimed as their own.

At each stop, they sing new songs and try new branches, always hoping to recapture the brilliance they remember. But no matter how far they fly or how loud they chirp, their melodies never quite measure up. The magic isn’t in the air, the trees, or their efforts—it’s long gone.

Year after year, the cycle continues. The birds fly, chasing echoes of the songs they'll never reclaim, unable to recognize that the magic they seek was never truly theirs to begin with.