The Ones Who Watch From Above: Red Kites, Barn Owls, and the Practice of Witnessing

Some evenings, the sky holds more life than the land.

Red kites wheel silently overhead, their wings stretched wide like sails. Barn owls skim the treetops at dusk, soft and silent and utterly sure of themselves. Bats flicker in and out of view, tracing insect trails through the last light.

They don’t care that I’m watching. They don’t perform. They simply exist—graceful, grounded in the air, part of a world that keeps turning whether we see it or not.

I find myself looking up more lately. Not for answers, just for reassurance. For beauty. For reminders that not everything needs to be understood or explained. Some things are just meant to be witnessed.

There’s healing in that. Not trying to fix. Not needing to do. Just being in the presence of something wild and unbothered.

In therapy, we often talk about witnessing—being truly seen without being judged or hurried. These birds, these sky-watchers, seem to do that in their own way. Not as counsellors, but as quiet companions. Living their truth above the noise.

They remind me that grace is everywhere. That awe doesn’t need a plan. That presence is enough.

Not everything needs fixing. Some things just need witnessing. Keep looking up. The sky has room for you.

Be where your breath is.

Sarah