Explore Quotes on Bird

When we accept our own wild beauty, it is put into perspective, and we are no longer poignantly aware of it anymore, but neither would we forsake it or disclaim it either. Does a wolf know how beautiful she is when she leaps? Does a feline know what beautiful shapes she makes when she sits? Is a bird awed by the sound it hears when it snaps open its wings? Learning from them, we just act in our own true way and do not draw back from or hide our natural beauty. Like the creatures, we just are, and it is right.

I was stuck in traffic one day and just kinda thought it would be funny to masturbate. It was sunny and clear out, so I was worried one of the other drivers would see me, but my jeep is pretty high off the ground, so I think no one noticed. I busted a nut and aimed it down, ruining my tweety bird floor mat. I felt kinda stupid after and my mom kept silent the rest of the drive home. It was awkward and I regret it.

In order to have good fried chicken, you should wash and season the bird the morning you're preparing it for dinner. Don't wait and do it right before you start cooking. Throw it in the refrigerator, seasoned, that morning, and give it a chance to soak up all the salt and pepper and goodness.

I am like a tree in a forest. Birds come to the tree, they sit on its branches and eat its fruits. To the birds, the fruit may be sweet or sour or whatever. The birds say sweet or they say sour, but from the tree's point of view, this is just the chattering of birds.

At the center, where a cuckoo bird would live in a more traditional timepiece, is the juggler. Dressed in harlequin style with a grey mask, he juggles shiny silver balls that correspond to each hour. As the clock chimes, another ball joins the rest until at midnight he juggles twelve balls in a complex pattern._x000D_ After midnight the clock begins once more to fold in upon itself. The face lightens and the clouds return. The number of juggled balls decreases until the juggler himself vanishes._x000D_ By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream.

I suppose I am a sparrow, a stay-at-home bird.

Boys flying kites haul in their white winged birds; You can't do that way when you're flying words. Careful with fire, is good advice we know Careful with words, is ten times doubly so. Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead; But God Himself can't kill them when they're said.

I always wonder why birds stay in the same place.

You have to believe in happiness, or happiness never comes Ah, that's the reason a bird can sing - On his darkest day he believes in spring.

Isn’t there a time or two you can remember when somehow an animal you’ve hunted has done something to make you let him vanish in the woods? … Isn’t there a bird or covey that somehow always manages to catch you with your gun on safe — even when you know it’s there? “I think we all know times that for almost certain we gave the hunt to the quarry.

I saw with open eyes, Singing birds sweet, Sold in the shops, For the people to eat, Sold in the shops of, Stupidity Street.

Birds have wings; they're free; they can fly where they want when they want. They have the kind of mobility many people envy.

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

It couldn't be an all-bad world, could it, not with birds who warble and call? Maybe that was the secret - to find the few things that made life just a fraction better, and to focus on those. Bird warbles. Peach fuzz. Puppies barking as if they're full grown dogs. Nothing great, certainly nothing to justify the rest of it, but enough to keep you going.

How can I be in two places at once, unless I were a bird?

I'm the gooney bird that walked to the bank. I'm doing better than most of those guys who said I was crazy.

For why trap what is already trapped? It is only in flight that we know the freedom of the bird

When I say God it is poetry and not theology. Nothing that any theologian has written about God has helped me much, but everything the poets have written about flowers and birds and skies and seas and saviors of the race, and God - whoever He may be - has at one time or another reached my soul!...The theologians gather dust upon the shelves of my library but the poets are stained with my fingers and blotted by my tears.

Praises for our past triumphs are as feathers to a dead bird.

When you have clay in your hands, it's hard to avoid making birds.

One does not begin to make a garden until he wants a garden. To want a garden is to be interested in plants, in the winds and rains, in birds and insects, in the warm-smelling earth.