The dove still pecks at my library window in the morning and again in the late afternoon, waiting for a refill of sesame seeds and last year's matza. She doesn’t know.
The crow still stands on top of the neighbor's water heater just after sunrise and caws mightily from within his breast. He doesn’t know.
The tzufit still flit, the two of them always together, to drink from the blossoms and reflect the sunshine from their iridescent feathers. They don't know.
The hogla still calls to her chicks and tends her ground nest. Grounded birds with no way to receive news of the world, they don't know.
But maybe they do know, maybe they even knew it was going to happen. They have seen it before, the birds of the world, the senseless hatred of men towards innocents.
So maybe the birds do know, but they know they can do nothing.
As I am protecting my young and feathering my nest in a war zone, I am learning again to focus on my circle of influence and trust the rest to HaShem and his seasons.
Perhaps we aren’t so different, the birds and I.