Constellations, ancient and steady, map the route before the first wings beat against warming air. Spring tilts the Earth forward, and the great wheel of stars whispers its command: north. Humans, mesmerized by screens, miss it, but birds—hearts attuned to forces older than memory—take notice. From an equatorial hush, they rise like exhaled breath, waves of beings spilling up into night sky. Warblers, weightless as thoughts, fight through corridors of wind. Shorebirds press against the curve of the Earth, tireless, following magnetic veins invisible to all but them. Swallows stitch twilight to dawn. Above, the moon—mottled and watchful—glows softly on a billion unseen flights. Beneath, a restless land pulses with anticipation. Flowers bloom, insects unfurl their wings, and trees stretch their budding fingers skyward, ready to receive. This is a pilgrimage written in light and dark, gravity and hunger—a choreography of survival performed without audience or applause. And yet, look—step outside on a damp morning, turn your eyes to flora, watch for unfamiliar movements, strange shapes, the flash of tropics-borne plumage. Listen—walk alone, tilt your ear toward foreign buzzes, alien songs, even the hush between wind gusts. Give your attention—notice. The birds will tell you a celestial story of life sweeping ever northward.