The first time Ama noticed it, she didn’t think it meant anything.
It was just a small wooden house hanging from a tree branch, swaying gently in the morning light. Inside it, a shallow dish shimmered with nectar, and birds came without hesitation, tiny bodies, beating wings, and fearless hunger. They drank as though the world had already agreed to keep them alive.
No one asked them why they were hungry.
No one told them to wait.
No one turned them away.
Ama stood there longer than she should have, watching.
Because just beyond that quiet tree, the world worked differently.
She had seen men fold into themselves on long bus rides, their stomachs louder than the engines. She had seen women at the market pause, calculate, and walk away with less than they needed. She had seen children learn too early that sleep could sometimes replace food.
And yet, for the birds, there was always something waiting.
It was such a small thing.
A simple offering.
A quiet decision.
But it was enough.
That was what stayed with her.
Not the feeder itself, but the certainty of it. The unspoken promise that somewhere, someone had decided hunger should not win.
Ama turned away eventually, but the thought followed her home. It sat with her as she unlocked her gate, as she stepped into her kitchen, as she stared at the little she had and wondered,
What would the world look like?
What if we fed each other like we fed the birds?