Quotes about birds

Birds are indicators of the environment. If they are in trouble, we know we'll soon be in trouble.

Never leave the egg in you not laid. Don't leave the laid eggs there not hatched. You deserve the best you were created to use every gift in you!

Later that day I went back to the old turf-house door and drew back the ivy. There between the stones was the dried-out bird's nest that was no longer in use because its owner was on her foreign holidays. I eased my letter to Santa out of my pocket and tucked it into the nest. I considered this the ideal resting place because the owner and Santa both belonged to foreign places and came here across the sky. There was the mystery of the unknown about the worlds they both came from they belonged in

From birds she learned how to sing from cats she learned a form of dangerous independence.

You got the eggs in you the world is fully ready to celebrate the chicks out of your laying labour. Never give up. Go and breed! Go and breed great dreams.

Love is not only the story of butterflies or birds it is also the story of jackals and hounds

I am decidedly of the opinion that in very many instances we can trace such a necessary connexion, especially among birds, and often with more complete success than in the case which I have here attempted to explain.

Soft feathers cannot make a cruel bird kind

You are not too small. No one is ever too small to offer help.

Hey, ants!" she shouted. "Please help. Anteater is very hungry, but cannot find any food.

Wait," Honey said to herself, as she realized something amazing. "I’m already an excellent flyer. Maybe I can fight crime too.

It was my uncle who taught me about the birds and the bees. He sat me down one day and said, 'Remember this, George, the birds fuck the bees.' Then he told me he once banged a girl so hard her freckles came off.

I saw two birds having dangerously kinky sex on the main road, while several cars ran above them just missing the sparrows’ toss and tumble fly away. The couple survived to try it again next season on a railway line!

He imagines a necessary joy in things that must fly to eat.

Newborn babies can't do much on their own-They can't eat or walk or talk on the phone-But every parent is sure their creation is without a doubt a tremendous sensation.

It's time to make love, douse the glim; The fireflies twinkle and dim; The stars lean together Like birds of a feather, And the loin lies down with the limb.

Pan, who and what art thou?" he cried huskily."I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.

Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn.

Just because we have birds inside is, we don't have to be cages. -from Instant Recognition between Strangers

Just because we have birds inside is, we don't have to be cages.

One night a flock of red-tailed black cockatoos break the quiet as they charge up from the creek, right over the homestead, then down the hill towards Clem's house.'They're my favourite, you know, of all the birds, they're the best,' comes Tom's raspy whisper. 'I know Dad,' says Clem. 'You always say.''They're majestic, dramatic. You wouldn't argue with one.

The moon seems unawareof night's dark hittingon the damp warm rain misguiding owl's spitting A thunder light of loveraising hearts beatingwhile weather learns morefrom rain lovers meeting

Why do the birds return?” “What d’you mean?” Brandon looked lost all of a sudden. “I mean, they could go anywhere. They’re free…so why do they return to this place?” Brandon grinned. “Cause home’s home no matter how bleak.

Do you mean that Zane is some kind of bird magnet?

Birds know themselves not to be at the center of anything, but at the margins of everything. The end of the map. We only live where someone's horizon sweeps someone else's. We are only noticed on the edge of things; but on the edge of things, we notice much.

I write amongst the stars, and the canvased paper moon. I paint the fields of green, sprinkling morning dew. I teach the birds to sing, a tweet, a tweet, times two. And when my busy day is done, I dream sweet dreams of you.

Do you think people have evolved too far, because I do; oh their ability to heal is indeed a wonder and I do praise them for that, but in many other things I think evolution has been a bit rushed, like getting to the bus stop before the wheel was invented.

They were making a riotous noise, but it was much more like music - rather advanced music which you don't quite take in at the first hearing - than birds' songs ever are in our world.

The elders say- difficult to prove- that winged creatures also dream. The birds are lovers of heights, always searching out landing spots, never constant here at the foot of the human race. 'It's that they discovered a magical advantage...' they say, 'the sound of silence.'At the foot of the clouds the raindrops come earlier, it's true, and the silence of the sky is something unattainable for those who don't fly- we have never experimented. The dream of the birds was that man of them headed for

Love is for the birds.Honey is for the bees.And you, my special one.Are the only one for me.

The sun's rays have vision and give us vision. However, it is the birds' eyes and the two invisible angels by your side that record everything. Nothing goes unnoticed throughout the universe. Wherever there is a vibration, there are eyes and ears. Some energies don't need ears or vision to see or hear, they can feel what is in your heart and tap into all your sins and fears.

Humans have better wings than birds: Human mind is a perfect wing and with this wing we can fly to some farthermost places no bird can ever dream! Yes, mind is a wing; and when it comes to flying man is the most sophisticated bird on earth!

Break out to go out___________________The birds dare to break the egg shellIt does so in order to get out of that HellWhen it finally succeeds, it’ll then flyTo its comfort zone it’ll say byeAre you being confined in a small spaceHow long will you remain at that place?Before you can explore more territories,Break away from the former glories.Yesterday’s excellence is today’s averageYou must strive to be better age after ageNever accept the available mediocrityAs the only preferable opportunityDe

what if there was an uncanny moment when all the birds were grounded from Cape Town to Juneau, and everywhere between--all feathers frozen in a universal stutter, so quick as to make a snail of light, and even Stephen Hawking's mind would miss it?

The day we decide to drop the flimsy makeshift scenarios in our cluttered mind and eschew the ‘alleluias’ of self-importance, life can become genuine, lucid and graceful, like a flow of wellness in the glow of a new morning. ("Words flew away like birds")

Lovers are the best birds in the world when they know how to fly higher...

If an ancient man saw planes two thousand years ago He would've thought they were birds Or angels from another world Or messengers from other planets.

Newly-born books are like birds… they shouldn’t be kicked out of the nest until they’re capable of flying. Wendy Anne Darling 5-1-15

The day arrived,when myriad teary rivers flow and the muted wind faintly died in his tears—an altar for the beloved one's departure,for sister-hood is no more,for her to adore!while pangs the beating world in a lamenting voice;their remembering loss of the 'one' they embrace most and when the crepuscule came like a phantom,the mournful,gathered birds swiftly flew in gloom.

THE OLD MAN IN THE CORNERThe man in the cornerIs dying with wordsHe's crying to be heardHis days are markedAnd his only ears are birdsHe knows the secret to peaceAnd his experience bleeds and hurtsSomebody stop and listenBefore he departs the earth!Somebody write his thoughtsBefore he hits the turf!His eyes are closing their shuttersAnd he just dropped hisBeads and stick.His breath is leaving us.Please!Somebody hear him out quick!A little girl rushes to him andPicks up his cane of wood.The old m

One twig at a time. Like a bird making a nest.

I knew the legends of the birds. Seagulls were the souls of dead soldiers. Owls were the souls of women. Doves were the recently departed souls of unmarried girls.Was there a bird for the souls of people like me?

The most risky day in the world will be the day the bird will decide to swim and the fish will decide to fly. Stay glued to what you can do.

This is wonderful, wonderful! Be the bird. You are the bird. Sacrifice yourself to abandoned family values....

Wings can only flyas long as the bird flies Soul blackens when you put on vestment of lies White candle wax criesfor ignitable wickJealous people burnto make your heart feel sick

We like to romanticize the wild, raw, majestic beauty of nature. But when you take a closer look, nature is really just a giant fuckfest. That beautiful bird chirping? It's a mating call. That pretty little bird is trying to get laid. And why does the peacock have such beautiful feathers? To attract females. Because he's trying to get laid.

Every springI hear the thrush singingin the glowing woodshe is only passing through.His voice is deep,then he lifts it until it seemsto fall from the sky.I am thrilled.I am grateful.Then, by the end of morning,he's gone, nothing but silenceout of the treewhere he rested for a night.And this I find acceptable.Not enough is a poor life.But too much is, well, too much.Imagine Verdi or Mahlerevery day, all day.It would exhaust anyone.

A male frigate bird blows up a wild red pouch on his neck. He can keep it puffed up for hours. It is his way of impressing the girls.

The crow flew closer, as if to hear its praises.

Later, Ella looked for the two swallows in the eaves outside the window, watching them even more closely now. The thought of them flying all that way, across mountains and seas and returning here, because this was their home - of them knowing how to find it - changed things. It was a new way of seeing; this was no longer just the place where women and men were kept, but the home of other creatures too, ones that had travelled far and still chosen it because this, above all other places, was the

In time of rain I come:I can sing among the flowers:I utter my song: my heart is glad.Water of flowers foams over the earth:My heart was intoxicated.

I adore the sky wearing rainbow shawl of love for the birds so that they could fly free in warmth after the storm

Nature has no beauty forbiddenManmade concrete slab: guilt-riddenWings or leaves whatever we may careThose limbs with the birds only trees will share

Long before the stars died the birds began to sing - cool rippling doves, loud cheery starlings, the long lilting trills of warblers and thrushes.

How can one deceive these dear little birds, when they look at one so sweetly and confidingly? I call them birds because there is nothing in the world better than birds!

The sun rises, the sun falls, the wind blows and the birds sing no matter where you are. These are experiences that unite us all... something we can all enjoy together

The sloshing of their hooves in the paddy field that I heard thirty yards away, my car door open for the breeze, the haunting sound I was caught within as if creatures of magnificence were undressing and removing their wings

One by one and then together the birds chanted, warbled, whistled, and cooed, like a rare desert plant bursting into life after the rain.

On a winter’s day when a person’s spirits may be low and to behold thirty to one-hundred Evening Grosbeaks busily gorging themselves on bird seed and perched in a stand of pines with all of them creating a cacophony of sparrow like chirps, this is real therapy for me. It is an act of contagious optimism. It is at such times I realize that a bird can do more for me than a shrink.

We proclaim human intelligence to be morally valuable per se because we are human. If we were birds, we would proclaim the ability to fly as morally valuable per se. If we were fish, we would proclaim the ability to live underwater as morally valuable per se. But apart from our obviously self-interested proclamations, there is nothing morally valuable per se about human intelligence.

It is as simple as that. Birds fly because they have wings and so when you can’t grow the wings, you can’t be called a bird. Leaders make impacts because they create new ideas and so if you can’t think of any new innovative ideas, you can’t be a leader.

I was convinced that birds were kinds of souls. Not the souls of people but of previous birds whose mystery and beauty were so necessary on earth that God would not allow them to be anything in their second life but birds again.

Of course women are flighty, I thought. We have more predators than men.

Men have hitherto treated women like birds which have strayed down to them from the heights; as something more delicate, more fragile, more savage, stranger, sweeter, soulful – but as something which has to be caged up so that it shall not fly away.

Some people are so much heaven to the square inch that life is simply hell, when she leaves you in order to go south for the winter. (Yes, women are people too, sometimes even threee.)

Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.

I love the freedom of my wings. I love the empty space above the ground. I rejoice in my freedom. Freedom is my religion. Peace is my God. Love is my worship.

Just as the bird needs wings to fly, a leader needs useful information to flow. Leaders learn.

The bird dares to break the shell, then the shell breaks open and the bird can fly openly. This is the simplest principle of success. You dream, you dare and and you fly.

Two turtle doves will show theeWhere my cold ashes lieAnd sadly murmuring tell theeHow in tears I did die

I want to hear the wind in the trees. Feel the sun warm my back. I want to see birds fly in a sky with no boundaries.

Sun-struck, stuck in mid tropic strut, it sometimes standsas if considering how to cool avian plastic,dive into the mown lagoon of lawn;how take flight on dayglow flap-doodle wings, no matterif it is ball-bald going nowhere fast.

You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your kneesfor a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.Meanwhile the world goes on.Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rainare moving across the landscapes,over the prairies and the deep trees,the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.Whoever

Not every hen lay eggs. Not every hen that lays eggs gets them hatched. Not everyone born with greatness becomes as such. Go, hatch your eggs.

When you are trapped in a cage with broken wings, freedom can seem like a faraway deeply buried treasure. But it is always within reach.

O Heavenly Children, do not forget that God is here, there and everywhere. The birds are his eyes and the air is his ears. And as you sleep, your heart and soul rest naked before him. He can drink from the rivers of your thoughts, and even feel the wetness of your tears.

Birds were created to record everything. They were not designed just to be beautiful jewels in the sky, but to serve as the eyes of heaven.

I don’t know [why we're here]. People sometimes say to me, ‘Why don’t you admit that the humming bird, the butterfly, the Bird of Paradise are proof of the wonderful things produced by Creation?’ And I always say, well, when you say that, you’ve also got to think of a little boy sitting on a river bank, like here, in West Africa, that’s got a little worm, a living organism, in his eye and boring through the eyeball and is slowly turning him blind. The Creator God that you believe in, presumably,

The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.

Heavenly bodies are nests of invisible birds.

What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.

Dad?" Jesus asked."Yes, son?" God replied."Why do birds sing?" Jesus asked."Birds sing to welcome in the day and so that people can rejoice in their sweet voices," God said."What about chickens then?" Jesus asked now."Chickens are alarm clocks," God said."Alarm clocks?" Jesus asked bewildered."Yes, alarm clocks. They let everyone know that a new day is coming. Would you want to miss seeing the beauty of a sunrise?" God asked Jesus."No! I love watching a new day dawn," Jesus said."So it is with a

The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings.

Kiana loved birds," Breena told him late one dusky evening. "When she was just a few summers old, she would run beneath them as they flew, her chubby arms stretched out as if tmo take flight alongside them." She sniffed and wrapped her arms around her stomach. "A few weeks before the attack, she told me that she was still going to fly one day. 'I look at the birds, and I see freedom,' she said. 'To soar above the hurt of the world, to be too high for the wars of men to touch you: that is what it

When the sky is fully covered by the birds, you will feel the winds of pure freedom beneath this sky!

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild.

When the woman you live with is an artist, every day is a surprise. Clare has turned the second bedroom into a wonder cabinet, full of small sculptures and drawings pinned up on every inch of wall space. There are coils of wire and rolls of paper tucked into shelves and drawers. The sculptures remind me of kites, or model airplanes. I say this to Clare one evening, standing in the doorway of her studio in my suit and tie, home from work, about to begin making dinner, and she throws one at me; it

She decided to free herself, dance into the wind, create a new language. And birds fluttered around her, writing “yes” in the sky.

The freedom of birds is an insult to me.

We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them.

Nothing belongs to itself anymore. These trees are yours because you once looked at them. These streets are yours because you once traversed them. These coffee shops and bookshops, these cafés and bars, their sole owner is you. They gave themselves so willingly, surrendering to your perfume. You sang with the birds and they stopped to listen to you. You smiled at the sheepish stars and they fell into your hair. The sun and moon, the sea and mountain, they have all left from heartbreak. Nothing b

A bird, unable to fly, is still a bird; but a human unable to love is an inexpensive stone: like a piece of uric acid stone

Every morningbefore the birds starttrilling me their stories,I give birth to a new lovethrough my same old heartwhen a lake’s placidityfinds life in the swans breathOnly for you...From the poem 'Only For You

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.

And I want to be with you till the birds forget how to fly in the blue azure sky and the fish forget how to swim in the blue green sea...

Everywhere I go, your beauty spills into my day. The trees were never this verdant. The birdsong never this sweet.

My love, you are driving the entire world mad. The nightingales are committing suicide one by one out of jealousy of your voice. The roses took one glance at your beauty and folded themselves from shame. The trees now only whisper your name and the sky hasn’t stopped crying since you looked up. Have pity on us, my love. We have already broken all the mirrors and glass out of fear that you will forget us and fall in love with yourself once you see what we all cannot stop seeing.

But in the early 1970s, we were not birdwatching. We were birding, and that made all the difference. We were out to seek, to discover, to chase, to learn, to find as many different kinds of birds as possible — and, in friendly competition, to try to find more of them than the next birder. We became a community of birders, with the complications that human societies always have; and although it was the birds that had brought us together, our story became a human story after all.

The man was staring directly at him now, a curious expression on his face, half smiling, half quizzical. Instantly Eager had a sense of certainty far deeper than anything he had experienced so far. "I have it too!" he exclaimed. "I am a part of this Earth, aren't I? Just like the birds and the trees and the people - I am.""Om." said his companion.Unseen by them, a blossom fell.