Quotes About Birds

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street

The crippled Raven found Will in his new room and seemed well pleased with the wider window, for all it must rattle at the glass for attention. Will didn't think this typical behavior in a raven, but perhaps the pampered birds at the Tower had been hand-fed into audacity.

Look, let's see ourselves in the distance, then we shall think, how happy they are! We're young; this is spring; this is a wood. In some sort of way or other we love each other, and our lives are before us—God pity us! Do you hear the birds?

In the Middle Ages it was a given that all animals and birds had a name relating to their kind. All cats, for example, were either Gylbert or Tybald (hence Tibbles); all sparrows were Philip. All redbreasts were Robin, and wrens were Jenny. And all monkeys were Robert. Still

The light was muted gray in the moment before sunrise and the birdsong was a hymn to the new day and all the glorious business of living in the moment.

Each day the sun shone, the birds lingered, though the trees were turning, purely out of habit, and their rose and yellow and rust looked strange and beautiful above the brilliant green grass.

The birds do not like this camera," Sveinsson said. "So they fly over it and shit on it.

Birds were also hard-hit; perhaps three-quarters of all bird families, perhaps more, went extinct.

and handjobs on crows.

A hundred starlings let loose in Central Park have by now multiplied to more than two hundred million.

Wood storks cool off by defecating on their own legs. (In

Lighter things will happen to you, birds will steal your husband's sandwich on the beach, and your child will still be dead, and your husband's shock will still be funny.

HER OWN VISION of the future was of happiness in the air. Something was baking. Children were playing games. There were flowers and substantial trees, and birds were singing in their nests. She was living with someone who was laughing.

April 19 And now it is spring. Birds are singing. Wistful notes and jubilant. And bare streets and no need for coats, and skipping ropes and bicycles and a thin new moon.

I have seen starry archipelagoes! and islandsWhose raving skies are opened to the voyager:Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep, in exile,A million golden birds, O future Vigor?

wall. But one day Rusty Wren told him that his cousin, Long Bill Wren,

As millions of people know, one of the great pleasures of walking in areas of the uplands managed for grouse is to see and hear large numbers of curlew, lapwing and golden plover - all ground-nesting birds largely absent or in rapidly declining numbers elsewhere.

Robin is one of the most native and democratic of our birds; he is one of the family, and seems much nearer to us than those rare, exotic visitants, as the orchard starling or rose-breasted grossbeak, with their distant, high-bred ways.

Often I sit in the lawn and have my morning cuppa amidst the twittering of rare birds.

I love puffins. They are small, round gothic birds, and their babies are called pufflings.

Self-help books are for the birds. Self-help groups are where it's at.

Eagles are seagulls with a good hairdo.

The flowers are springing up, the season of singing birds has come, and the cooing of turtledoves fills the air. —Song of Songs 2:12