Something I have noticed is that birds always seem to be smiling. Whether hummingbirds enjoying a flower’s nectar, cardinals preening in the new-fallen snow, pelicans diving for dinner in crystal blue water, or geese flying south for the winter, they always seem to be smiling.

From the place in me that knows life’s sweetness and beauty, I know birds smile. They don’t get their tail feathers ruffled. They steer clear of storms. They stick together in flocks of bird friends. They pay attention to the seasons — which feels like listening to an internal rhythm. They focus on what matters — building nests, finding food, caring for bird friends and family. Birds definitely smile.

Birds are smart. Their smiles do not come from a place of ignorance or superficiality. Bird brains allow them to fly long distances and arrive at the exact perfect destination. Bird brains allow them to build architectural feats of wonder — nests of varying description — in difficult spaces like on trees and cliffs. Bird brains allow them to forgive and let go, something I am definitely working on.

My elderly cats, Freckles and Tater, tipped me off to watching birds. That is how I learned that birds smile. My cats probably look outside our windows for birds for a different reason, but we can look out our window for hours — observing clouds and insects and changing leaves. I am not a birder, though birding fascinates me, so I don’t get caught up in knowing what I am looking at. I simply look for smiling birds.

Bird smiles are a delight. They invite us to see the world a bit differently. They invite simplicity in chaos. They invite quiet when everything is loud. They invite joy in sadness. (I dare anyone to be sad when looking at a smiling bird.) They invite pause when hurry is the dance. They invite awe in the magic of the everyday.

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