Wings were never meant to be folded forever. We watch the sky change, noting the departure of what we nurtured, only to realize the air remains open for us, too. The silence of the winter clouds isn't an ending; it's the quiet before the next great migration. To fly is to be vulnerable to the wind, yet we find our way back to the light, one steady beat at a time. May the currents of this new year carry all, who have endured heaviness in their world, back into the soft and gentle blue.