Some of the birds have become familiar companions. The herons are impossible to miss when they glide across the puddle. The hawks almost always catch my attention simply because of their size. After nearly twenty years, the purple martins belong to this neighborhood as much as any of us do. Every now and then I hear the unmistakable caw of a crow and look up just in time to watch one, or maybe a few, making their way between the trees.
Other visitors are familiar in different ways. I recognize the bright red of a cardinal, the flash of blue from a jay, or the yellow of a goldfinch. I know they’re there, even if I couldn’t tell you much more about them.
And then there are the countless birds that simply fly overhead.
I don’t know their names. I don’t know where they’re going or where they’ve come from. They pass through my little corner of the world for only a few moments before disappearing beyond the trees.
A few months ago I probably would have reached for my phone, searched for an identification guide, and tried to learn everything I could.
Today, I didn’t.
Instead, I simply watched.
Somehow, that feels like enough.
The puddle has quietly taught me that appreciation doesn’t always require explanation. Sometimes it is enough to recognize a familiar friend, smile at a familiar color, or simply notice that something beautiful passed overhead.
There will always be more to learn, more to identify, and more stories waiting in the sky above me.
And maybe that’s one of the greatest gifts of all.
No matter how much we come to know, there is always something left to wonder about.
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