Birds of Prayer
"A murmuration of peace, a dream of unbound flight" - Chloe Hope
They rise, scattered and solitary, lifting from fields and rooftops, drops of ink against the fading light. At first, a trickle. In twos and threes, they coalesce, wingtips catching the last gold of the day as they are drawn inexorably toward their distant roost and rest.
From treetops and telephone wires, from office blocks and church spires, they take flight, spilling across the sky in rivulets that merge, gathering into a stream, then a cascade. They flow in fluid, shifting tides and rippling waves, rising, expanding, until the sky is alive with them. Bound together by instinct and survival, they surge and eddie in seamless unison, a shifting phantom of countless bodies dissolving and reforming in defiance of waiting talons. A river of memory, warmth and knowing flowing unbroken through the dusk.
A vast murmuration swelling in liquid grace on unseen and ephemeral currents.
We write, scattered and solitary, ink leaks through pen nib onto paper, flowing in careful lines, fingers move across keyboards, striking letters like raindrops tapping on glass. Pixels coalesce, fragments of liquid light arranging themselves into meaning as we are drawn inexorably toward one another, carried by currents of longing to share and connect.
From hills and islands, lake shores and valleys, from terraces and tenements, city streets and suburbs, words take flight, spilling across our screens in rivulets that merge, gathering into a stream, then a cascade. Stories of kindness, messages of friendship, letters of love. In a world where cynicism is easy, where despair is loud, each one is a small act of defiance against the creeping weight of fear, hopelessness, and dangerous men.
They are words of hope stitched from scraps of courage and tenderness, wings patched with the weight of struggle. Feathers inked with the stories of what has been broken. And yet, they rise…
I’m aching for stories of hope. Real hope. Not fluffy/empty/pretty hope. I need a scrappy kind of hope. I need a hope that acknowledges struggles and shows up anyway…
Hope is rebellious.
…The truth is: there are challenges, but also the overcoming of them. There is coldness, but also compassion. There are terrible problems, but also tremendous possibilities. Tell us of the darkness in this world, but also courageous, creative responses to it.
Written by -in his letter, We need you, hopepunks.
They are friendships offered and accepted, threads of connection spun between strangers, across miles and oceans, outstretched wings catching the same current…
“Will you be my friend? I’ve got a White-clawed Crayfish claw that I found in the Eden and some of my uncle's magic hooks with curvy shanks wrapped in the original grease-paper. Swop with you for something? It's OK. I've got spares.”
“Dearest David,
What a magical spell you've cast across half a globe on a chill winter's day. I have been smiling since first reading…
Indeed, I will.
I am.”
For my part of this 'swop,' I should like to send you A: a summer-shed snakeskin (quite magical with even the eyes intact), gathered from a clump of perennial bunchgrass while fly fishing deep in a desert river canyon in Oregon, two summers past, B: an owl pellet of uncommon beauty (as owl pellets go), weighty with bony tales, nighttime hunts and mousy victories, sans words but full of stories. And finally, C: a downy, Blue Heron feather that whispered a fluttering tale of flight and fall when found, rather than one of demise.
The offer of friendship from David Knowles, and the acceptance from in his letter, The Gift of Invitation.
They are stories of kindness, woven from small gestures and quiet offerings, light as fallen feathers…
“There are many layers to power. We can march, we can sign petitions, we can engage with the news, and start conversations with friends and family, and get into debates. And we should do this, if we are able, but we do not always have to go so big.
We can go small, too. We can lift a snail out of danger, we can bake bread for a neighbour, we can offer a lift to a stranger.
There is so much power – more power than we can measure – in millions of small acts of kindness.”
An extract from The owl-eyed fisherman written by
They are communities of deep connection, voices rising in chorus, each one calling, each one welcomed…
“The community you turned to—the kind, compassionate, empathic, and unwavering souls who saw you—showed up in ways you couldn’t have imagined.
Their responses weren’t born from obligation or pity but from genuine care. These weren’t just strangers offering hollow words. They gave their time, their presence, their stories, and even their resources. They held space for you, honored your vulnerability, and reminded you of the abundance that exists even in the face of loss.
Sweetie, this is what community truly means: not a group of people hurling words into the void, but a circle of humans saying, “We’re here. We see you. We care.”
Words from Jay in her letter, Rediscovering Myself Through Depth and Connection, written in response to the unexpected kinship that has grown within the comments of ’s Substack, Letters from Love.
They are hearts offered in companionship to suffering, wingbeats beside the weary, a hush of feathers settling close…
“But it’s not enough. I can’t wrap my head around it. Comprehension feels two-dimensional, distant, and armored. I recall my own chapters of grief, but here I am today: warm, fed, housed, happy. A Do Not Trespass sign hangs on the borders of empathy, warning me to stay in the safety of good fortune. Bolstered by its fabricated independence, the mind protects my little “i” from an infinite river of Big “I’s”: Insignificance, Indifference, Impermanence.
And still, I persist. I want—no, need—to feel. Today, I will break like Trommer’s wave and crash down upon the shore of separateness. My heart waits patiently; her love is no antidote to suffering but a companion—enduring and steady. She doesn’t fear the wreckage. She doesn’t need coaxing to feel; she simply needs the dam to give way, her waters to be set free. So I stop reading the updates. Close the news app. Shift my attention from furrowed brow to flexing heart and let my senses, and their kissing cousin sentimentality, lead the way.”
Written by in her letter, In defence of sentimentality in response to the devastating wildfires in California and the ache of witnessing so much loss.
They are messages of love sent without expectation, loosed into the air from an open heart…
“There is a man in solitary confinement in a United States prison, who I know only by his first name—which I have written on a piece of paper that I keep on my desk. I made a promise over a year ago to, whenever I see his name, send him love. And I do. I don’t know why he is there, whether he is guilty or innocent, or somewhere in-between. My love for him is a Bird of prayer, who is repeatedly sent out to deliver itself in the form of a murmuration of peace, or as a dream of unbound flight. Whether this Bird has ever found him, I’ll never know; and still it’s sent. Each time a reminder to thank and cherish the open sky.”
An extract from - The open sky written by Chloe Hope
These words, these friendships, these stories, these communities, these rippling waves of connection and kinship, rising, expanding, until they gather into a tide, sweeping outward, surging like a storm-driven sea. They turn and shift in shimmering unison, each voice lifting another, each message responding to the next. A soaring rebellion against the encroaching darkness.
They are birds of prayer…
If you look, once you look, they are everywhere.
A vast murmuration of hope that humanity, perhaps, is not yet lost…
In my mind, an image awakens.
I pick up my pencil.
The outline of a bird emerges on my canvas, conjured from the open sky. It stretches its wings in fluid powerful waves of motion, lifting from the darkness, trailing light as it rises.
Another follows. Then another.
Six birds, a whispered invocation flowing from the tip of my pencil, their silhouettes coalescing in light with each stroke. I follow the curve of their wings, the sweep of their tails, tracing their delicate forms in lines of soft white.
I sketch light into wingtips, feathers drift from my pencil. In layers of radiance, their bodies take shape. Glowing tendrils of mist trace the arc of their ascent, their translucent forms half air, half light.
The background deepens. The sky, rich with indigo and violet, swells behind them. I scatter flecks of white, tiny bursts of luminescence that shimmer with the dust of stars in the wake of each wingbeat.
I put down my pencil. They are finished. Rising, soaring, carried forward on currents of rebellious hope, defiant love and the silent promise that I will not turn away.
They are my birds of prayer…
This illustration, Birds of Prayer, was inspired by
’s beautiful post, The open sky.Hardly a day goes by without ideas for illustrations and artwork (and a myriad other creative things I want to do) starbursting in my mind. Reading Chloe’s words, the desire to bring her bird of prayer to life was irresistible. All of Chloe’s letters seem to me to be birds of prayer, words of love taking flight, carried on unseen currents of hope.
This world often feels too full of grief, cruelty and the relentless noise of those who wield power so destructively and spread despair and hatred like contagion. But here, among the writers and artists and storytellers, I have found others thinking and feeling the same shapes of ideas. Hope. Defiance. Care for one another and for the fragile, beautiful world that we share. Belief that our place here is as stewards and guardians, our purpose to protect and nurture life and this planet. It has felt like watching a murmuration of birds of prayer gathering in rebellion.
The extracts I have included within this letter are just a few of those voices, each one offering a different narrative, reminders that there is care and kindness and humanity still to be found, that the future is still unwritten, and we are still holding the pen.
This letter, this illustration is my offering to that great murmuration of hope.
Please add your own birds of prayer to this murmuration, share your stories of rebellious hope, humanity and kindness in the comments.
I have created a set of greetings cards of my birds of prayer, that I will gift to anyone upgrading to an annual paid subscription in March. And I have also added birds of prayer phone wallpapers and screen backgrounds to my ever growing gallery of beautiful imagery, for paid subscribers to download and keep.
If you would like to send your own birds of prayer, these cards are also available to purchase through Tree Keeper Books, so that messages of hope and kindness can be passed from hand to hand, from heart to heart.
With wishes for endless inspiration,
 | A guest post by
|
Oh, Emily, what a joy! What magic you’ve woven, here. And, what a thrill to be a thread in this tapestry of hope, and friendship, and sharing, and flight. You are a true artist, and alchemist. Thank you.
Hearing this in full, I felt the hush of wings again.
To be part of this murmuration—with all of you—has been one of those rare moments where words don’t just land, they gather. They carry.
Thank you, Emily, for bringing such luminous care to every line and stroke. Chloe, your words were the wind that lifted us. And to Brad, David, David, Rebecca, and Kimberly—what a gift to share this sky with you.
May our birds keep flying.