I came across a small pile of feathers.

They were scattered on the ground, light and almost weightless.
No sign of the bird they once belonged to.

Only this remained.

There was something quiet in it.
Not loss, not absence.
Just a trace.

The bird was no longer there.
And still, something of it was.

It did not need to be remembered.
It did not need to stay.

—

I have been thinking about this.

About how little remains, and how little needs to.

After many years, I began recording my music.
Not to hold onto it, and not to secure anything beyond the moment it appeared.

It was simply a step into something new.
A path I had not walked before.

Where it leads, I do not know.

What remains, if anything, is not mine to decide.

—

There is something freeing in that.

To let something exist fully, and then leave it.

Not everything is meant to stay.
Not everything is meant to be held onto.

Some things appear, and then they are gone.

Like the bird.

Like the feathers left behind.

Jeanette