Avoid the reeking herd, Shun the polluted flock, Live like that stoic bird, The eagle of the rock.
Lone eagles, soaring in the clouds, fly with silent, peaceful poise, While turkeys, in their earth-bound crowds, fill the atmosphere with noise.
The cuckoo is a lazy bird, She never builds a nest, She makes herself busy By singing to the rest.
What is sauce for the goose may be sauce for the gander but is not necessarily sauce for the chicken, the duck, the turkey or the guinea hen.
At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
. . . A widow bird sat mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below.
The lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."
I heard a bird at break of day Sing from the autumn trees A song so mystical and calm, So full of certainties.
And if you are not a bird, then beware of coming to rest above an abyss.
Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness; It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!
The bird let loose in Eastern skies, Returning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam; But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!
A wonderful bird is the pelican, His bill will hold more than his belican. He can take in his beak Enough food for a week, But I'm darned if I know how the helican.
In order to see birds it is necessary to become part of the silence.
What bird so sings, yet so does wail? O, 'tis the ravished nightingale! "Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries, And still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? None but the lark so shrill and clear;
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I knew her better than herself …and she was beautiful and strong and felt deep. It has always surprised me to see the way she saw herself; how little she thought about her person. It struck me as surprising because every single time I’ve seen her, I’ve thought her larger than life. And that’s why the world feared her. Because they couldn’t compare to her; she raised a new bar for others to be measured by. Because looking at the sun hurts…and she was that to me. My own piece of sky.
Aisha…is it wrong of me to wish you to break a leg? Into many tiny, little pieces? And when or if it heals…would it be too much to hope it ends up looking in the wrong direction…like backwards? Because I truly do. From the bottom of my little, black heart.” She crossed her fingers over said thing.