Quotes About Blackbirds

when we complained of the pigeons' greed and of the fact that they scared away the thrushes and blackbirds she said that they were very like humans, that their interests were so few that crumbgrabbing was their substitute for shady company-promoting.

Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds, Baked in a pie. When the pie was opened The birds began to sing; Wasn't that a dainty dish, To set before the king. The king was in his counting house, Counting out his money; The queen was in the parlour, Eating bread and honey. The maid was in the garden, Hanging out the clothes, When down came a blackbird And pecked off her nose.

In the spring I'd shit with the door open, watching the blackbirds

I love that sound,' he mumbled into her hair. 'Blackbirds at dawn.' 'I hate it. Makes me think I've done something I'll regret.

I don't mind him not talking so much, because you can hear his voice in your heart; the same way you can hear a song in your head even if there isn't a radio playing; the same way you can hear those blackbirds flying when they're not in the sky

The infallible teacher is still in the forest primeval, throwing seeds to the white blackbirds

There were two blackbirds,Sitting on a hill,The one named Jack,The other named Jill;Fly away, Jack! Fly away, Jill!Come again, Jack! Come again, Jill!

Last night the geese came back, slating fast from the blossom of the rising moon down to the black pond. A muskrat swimming in the twilight saw them and hurried to the secret lodges to tell everyone spring had come. And so it had. By morning when I went out the last of the ice had disappeared, blackbirds sang on the shores. Every year the geese, returning, do this, I don't know how.

Night doesn't fall, but rather, all the disregarded shadows of a day flock like blackbirds, and suddenly rise. — Stuart Dybek, from "Ravenswood," Alaska Quarterly Review , Fall & Winter 2012

I love that sound,' he mumbled into her hair. 'Blackbirds at dawn.' 'I hate it. Makes me think I've done something I'll regret.

we waste days like mad blackbirds and pray for alcoholic nights our silk-sick human smiles wrap around us like somebody else's confetti

Mustering flocks of blackbirds call; Here and there a few leaves fall; In the meadows larks sing sweet, Chirps the cricket at our feet,— In September.

Death is a flock of blackbirds low over muddy streets in war-torn Sarajevo. Dirt-stained walls yearn for all that is night. Elegies fall like raw silk. If there is a way it is here. Salt and ash.

I stayed under the moon too long. I am silvered with lust. Dreams flick like minnows through my eyes. My voice is trees tossing in the wind. I loose myself like a flock of blackbirds storming into your face. My lightest touch leaves blue prints, bruises on your mind. Desire sandpapers your skin so thin I read the veins and arteries maps of routes I will travel till I lodge in your spine. The night is our fur. We curl inside it licking.