Two Birds Love Quotes

The familiar song of a night-singing nightingale rises from somewhere in the garden. A nightingale that in this season of cold should not be in the garden, a nightingale that in a thousand verses of Iranian poetry, in the hours of darkness, for the love of a red rose and in sorrow of its separation from it, has forever sung and will forever sing. ~ Shahriar Mandanipour

Things I love about spring are these:
Blooming flowers on fruit-bearing trees.
Fire-red tulips - their first reveal -
Followed by sun-yellow daffodils.

Trees acquiring new coats of green.
Natural waterfalls glistening.
The chirps and melodies of birds.
Throaty ribbits of frogs overheard.

A passing whiff of mint to smell,
Oregano and basil as well.
Colorful butterflies with wings.
Fuzzy, industrious bees that sting.

Sunlight waning late in the day.
Warm breezes causing willows to sway.
Most of all, a sense of things new,
Including budding feelings for you. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

It looks like fallen petals, and it looks like rain. It looks like the sounds the birds make at dawn. It looks like the aisle of grocery stores when a song I love suddenly begins to play overhead, and I cannot help but dance a little dance. It looks like a sigh, a kiss, an unmade bed. It looks like Cheerios in a white bowl with a bit of silence on the side. It looks like a plain vanilla cupcake in white paper, a dance with the wind, pink toenails, warm socks. It looks like a fire against the cold of winter, and a deep lake cool against a summer sky. It looks like chick flicks, books that make you cry, and all the candles blown out on the first try. ~ D. Smith Kaich Jones

I know there will be spring, as surely as the birds know it when they see above the snow two tiny, quivering green leaves. Spring cannot fail us. ~ Olive Schreiner

In my mind, learning to fly was a very logical alternative. I honestly saw no other way to free myself from this torture other than to fly just like the birds did; the birds were completely free"
​ ~ Veronika Gasparyan

He's focused on something - or someone - over her shoulder.
The harmonious warbling of the rainforest morphs into organized disarray, as if a primitive maestro has thrown conducting to the wind and let Mother Nature take over. Birds trill a warning as the breeze rustles the plant life. Wings flutter overhead. A crescendo of stridulation changes tempo, the insects seemingly performing a sonata as the rhythm shifts yet again.
"What - who is it?" Summer asks in a strained whisper.
His gaze lands on her, his brows furrowing. "The Forsaken. ~ Laura Kreitzer

I was in bed at my beach house, but could not sleep because of some fried chicken in the icebox that I felt entitled to. I waited till my wife dropped off, and tiptoed into the kitchen. I remembered looking at the clock. It was precisely four-fifteen. I'm quite certain of this, because our kitchen clock has not worked in twenty-one years and is always at that time. I also noticed that our dog, Judas, was acting funny. He was sanding up on his hind legs and singing, 'I Enjoy Being a Girl.' Suddenly the room turned bright orange. At first, I thought my wife had caught me eating between meals and set fire to the house. Then I looked out the window, where to my amazement I saw a gigantic cigar-shaped aircraft hovering just over the treetops in the yard and emitting an orange glow. I stood transfixed for what must have been several hours, though our clock still read four-fifteen, so it was difficult to tell. Finally, a large, mechanical claw extended from the aircraft and snatched the two pieces of chicken from my hand and quickly retreated. When I reported the incident to the Air Force, they told me that what I had seen was a flock of birds. When I protested, Colonel Quincy Bascomb personally promised that the Air Force would return the two pieces of chicken. To this day, I have only received one piece. ~ Woody Allen

Dear god, it is years since I've prayed.
I understand the birds are holy.
I understand the body leads us to love, or

this is one way of knowing the world. ~ Stacie Cassarino

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.
I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!
Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache. ~ Pablo Neruda

The eagle had two natural enemies: storms and serpents. He embraced the storm, waiting on the rock for the right thermal current and then using that to carry him higher. While other birds were taking cover, the eagle was soaring. An eagle would never fight against the storms of life. ~ Karen Kingsbury

You are trying your best to make sense of a whole new world and a whole new self. It's scary to take steps towards independence and I wish I could help you feel softer towards yourself while you explore what that actually means. The dynamic nature of your experience right now is completely normal and those high highs and low lows are a ride that you will get used to and learn to appreciate. I know you are overwhelmed by your own emotions a lot these days , and that makes you angry with yourself. But a bird's eye view shows that there is a bottleneck building up, shepherding you toward your own discovery of songwriting as a part of your essence, not just a hobby. And you aren't alone. You are about to find a maze of people who share a love of the thing that will be your lifeboat: music. ~ Sara Bareilles

Separated lovers cheat absence by a thousand fancies which have their own reality. They are prevented from seeing one another and they cannot write; nevertheless they find countless mysterious ways of corresponding, by sending each other the song of birds, the scent of flowers, the laughter of children, the light of the sun, the sighing of the wind, and the gleam of the stars -all the beauties of creation. ~ Victor Hugo

If this was a sandalwood pyre she would have thrown herself in and this paper she'd become would have caught fire and she and him could sail away like two birds. ~ Janet Fitch

In the city of flesh I travel without maps, a worried tourist: and Ottilie was a very Venice. I stumbled lost in the blue shade of her pavements. Here was a dreamy stillness, a swaying, the splash of an oar. Then, when I least expected it, suddenly I stepped out into the great square, the sunlight, and she was a flock of birds scattering with soft cries in my arms. ~ John Banville

Oh, but it was splendid the things women were doing for men all the time, thought Jane. Making them feel, perhaps sometimes by no more than a casual glance, that they were loved and admired and desired when they were worthy of none of these things - enabling them to preen themselves and puff out their plumage like birds and bask in the sunshine of love, real or imagined, it didn't matter which. ~ Barbara Pym

You think people are some kind of pure, white feathered birds flying in the clouds. They're not. They're pigs and they love to wallow in the mud and dirt. ~ Fannie Flagg

I think it's very good music composed by a human composer and sung by two birds with two feet and no feathers! ~ Alexandre Dumas

The two of them had fallen into the habit of bartering knowledge whenever she visited. He schooled her in jazz, in bebop and exotic bossa nova, playing his favorites for her while he painted- Slim Gaillard, Rita Reys, King Pleasure, and Jimmy Giuffre- stabbing the air with his brush when there was a particular passage he wanted her to note. In turn, she showed him the latest additions to her birding diary- her sketches of the short-eared owl and American wigeon, the cedar waxwing and late warblers. She explained how the innocent-looking loggerhead shrike killed its prey by biting it in the back of the neck, severing the spinal cord before impaling the victim on thorns or barbed wire and tearing it apart.
"Good grief," he'd said, shuddering. "I'm in the clutches of an avian Vincent Price. ~ Tracy Guzeman

The birds in the sky can never great the king yet their beauty gives the king to stare at them endlessly, wishing to be with them in the sky. ~ Auliq Ice

Without love, we are birds with broken wings ~ Mitch Albom

The plea for ethical veganism, which rejects the treatment of birds and other animals as a food source or other commodity, is sometimes mistaken as a plea for dietary purity and elitism, as if formalistic food exercises and barren piety were the point of the desire to get the slaughterhouse out of one's kitchen and one's system. Abstractions such as 'vegetarianism' and 'veganism' mask the experiential and philosophical roots of a plant-based diet. They make the realities of 'food' animal production and consumption seem abstract and trivial, mere matters of ideological preference and consequence, or of individual taste, like selecting a shirt, or hair color.

However, the decision that has led millions of people to stop eating other animals is not rooted in arid adherence to diet or dogma, but in the desire to eliminate the kinds of experiences that using animals for food confers upon beings with feelings. The philosophic vegetarian believes with Isaac Bashevis Singer that even if God or Nature sides with the killers, one is obliged to protest. The human commitment to harmony, justice, peace, and love is ironic as long as we continue to support the suffering and shame of the slaughterhouse and its satellite operations.

Vegetarians do not eat animals, but, according to the traditional use of the term, they may choose to consume dairy products and eggs, in which case they are called lacto-ovo (milk and egg) vegetarians. In reality, the distinction between me ~ Karen Davis

Simon remembered a rhyme his mother used to recite to him, about magpies. You were supposed to count them and say: one for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for a birth, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret that's never been told.
"Right," simon said. He had already lost count of the numbers of birds there were. Seven, he guessed. A secret that's never been told. Whatever that was. ~ Cassandra Clare

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes - he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying - he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person - he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword - he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love - he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void - he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds - he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni - he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face - and all of these figures and faces res ~ Hermann Hesse

Peeta," I say lightly. "You said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?"
"Oh, let's see. I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair... it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up," Peeta says.
"Your father? Why?" I ask.
"He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,'" Peeta says.
"What? You're making that up!" I exclaim.
"No, true story," Peeta says. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings... even the birds stop to listen.'"
"That's true. They do. I mean, they did," I say. I'm stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to Peeta. It strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own dismissal of music might not really be that I think it's a waste of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father.
"So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent," Peeta says.
"Oh, please," I say, laughing.
"No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew - just like your mother - I was a goner," Peeta says. "Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to ta ~ Suzanne Collins

I was feeling lonely without her, but the fact that I could feel lonely at all was consolation. Loneliness wasn't such a bad feeling. It was like the stillness of the pin oak after the little birds had flown off. ~ Haruki Murakami

The thousand thousand grasses, dry now in the late-summer heat, bristle like the brittle pages of a thousand ancient books being turned by invisible scholars. Every blade and leaf and rock speaking of loss and endurance, the birds settling down for another night or two before their long, familiar hegira. The landscape he walks is an endless cascade of loss and dying and coming to life again, and he feels the immense silence of the dead and the eternal pulse of the living in the soles of his feet. ~ Robert Goolrick

In Nepal, the phenomenon is reversed. Time is a stick of incense that burns without being consumed. One day can seem like a week; a week, like months. Mornings stretch out and crack their spines with the yogic impassivity of house cats. Afternoons bulge with a succulent ripeness, like fat peaches. There is time enough to do everything - write a letter, eat breakfast, read the paper, visit a shrine or two, listen to the birds, bicycle downtown to change money, buy postcards, shop for Buddhas - and arrive home in time for lunch. ~ Jeff Greenwald

For the sake of a few lines one must see many cities, men and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the small flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings which one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents that one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and one did not grasp it (it was joy for someone else); to childhood illness that so strangely began with a number of profound and grave transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars-and it is not enough if one may think all of this. One must have memories of many nights of love, none of which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor, and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again. But one must also have been beside the dying, one must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises. And still it is not enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many, and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not until they have turned to blood within us, to glance, to gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves-not until then can it happen that ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

If you wouldn't mind driving my truck across the tarmac,I'd like to unload the medical supplies and deliver them to the clinic on the way to Delia's."
"Good idea.Let's kill two birds."
Marilee shook her head. "Please.I'd rather not talk about killing any birds."
Wyatt paused and touched a hand to her cheek.
She felt the heat all the way to her toes.
He stared down into her eyes,and his lips curved into a killer smile that had those same toes curling with pleasure.
"My fearless,independent adventurer. You handle a plane like you were born with wings.I've watched you patch up battered, bloody cowboys without flinching. But you can't even think about harming a bird."
She couldn't say a word.Her throat was dry as dust.
With a thoughtful look he rubbed a thumb over her lower lip,then turned away and headed toward her truck.
Marilee remained where she was, absorbing the aftershock of his touch. She'd thought he would kiss her.Had wanted him to.Desperately. Instead, all he'd done was touch her.And that had been enough to reduce her to a weak, trembling mass of jelly.
She was going to have to do something about these jumbled hormones.
She sucked in a deep breath and got to work hauling the cases of medical supplies.
By the time Wyatt drove the truck close to the plane,she was in control and able to work alongside him without sighing like a girl with her first crutch.
But just barely. ~ R.C. Ryan

If you gotta kill two birds, might as well get stoned. ~ Kinky Friedman

Look out the window behind her. "I see trees, the sky, and some clouds. Some birds on tree branches." "Nothing out of the ordinary. Right?" "That's right." "But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn't it?" "I suppose so." "Have you ever thought about that?" "I have." A surprised look comes over her. "When?" "When I'm in love," I tell her. ~ Haruki Murakami

I pray to the birds because they remind me of what I love rather than what I fear. And at the end of my prayers, they teach me how to listen. ~ Terry Tempest Williams

The ocean is 20 minutes away. Nature surrounds me 24/7. I wake up to the sounds of birds chirping. I also love that I can go out to dinner in jeans and flip-flops. ~ Jordana Brewster

I breathe in...
The sights and smells
Of this city
I've come to know...
So well
I gaze...
Across the turquoise ocean
Where the waves
Liberate my spirit...
From its shell

I breathe in...
The brilliant sky line
Where the birds
Emerge shyly
From the dappled sunshine
I breathe in...
The gently...
Blowing winds
That soothe me
Like a mother, around her child

I breathe in...
The sounds of laughter
Pure and pretty
Like the golden-green butterfly
I'm always after
I breathe in...
The closeness,
I have always shared
With people,
Who almost knew me,
Almost cared

I breathe in...
The comfort
Of my home,
The safe walls,
The scents of childhood
On the pillows
I breathe in...the silence
Of my own heart
Aching with tenderness...
With memories..
Of home

I breathe... in...
The fragrance
Of love, and moist sand
The one...
His roses left...
On both my hands
And I just keep on breathing
Every moment
As much as I can
Preserving it, in my body
For the day
It can't

So I breathe in..
Once again..
Feeling life's energy
Fizzing through my cells
Never knowing
What awaits me
Or what's going to happen to me..
Next
Sanober Khan

Wherever snow falls, or water flows, or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds, or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger, and awe, and love, there is Beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou shouldest walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it; let's do it, let's fall in love. ~ Cole Porter

Brother," he wept, "my heart is being cut in two. I cannot bear it."
"Tscha!" said the Tsar of Birds. "Life is like that. ~ Catherynne M Valente

A driving snow-storm in the night and still raging; five or six inches deep on a level at 7 A.M. All birds are turned into snowbirds. Trees and houses have put on the aspect of winter. The traveller's carriage wheels, the farmer's wagon, are converted into white disks of snow through which the spokes hardly appear. But it is good now to stay in the house and read and write. We do not now go wandering all abroad and dissipated, but the imprisoning storm condenses our thoughts. I can hear the clock tick as not in pleasant weather. My life is enriched. I love to hear the wind howl. I have a fancy for sitting with my book or paper in some mean and apparently unfavorable place, in the kitchen, for instance, where the work is going on, rather a little cold than comfortable. ~ Henry David Thoreau

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face. ~ James Joyce

I am slowly, painfully discovering that my refuge is not found in my mother, my grandmother, of even the birds of Bear River. My refuge exists in my capacity to love. If I can learn to love death then I can begin to find refuge in change. ~ Terry Tempest Williams

In the ashes on the hearth Saigyo traced and retraced the word, "pity." He had yet to learn to accept life with all its good and evils, to love life in all its manifestations by becoming one with nature. And for this he had abandoned home, wife, and child in that city of conflict. He had fled to save his own life, not for any grandiose dream of redeeming mankind; neither had he taken vows with the thoughts of chanting sutras to Buddha; nor did he aspire to brocaded ranks of the high prelates. Only by surrendering to nature could he best cherish his own life, learn how man should live, and therein find peace. And if any priest accused him of taking the vows out of self-love, not to purify the world and bring salvation to men, Saigyo was ready to admit that these charges were true and that he deserved to be reviled and spat upon as a false priest. Yet, if driven to answer for himself, he was prepared to declare that he who had not learned to love his own life could not love mankind, and that what he sought now was to love that life which was his. Gifts he had none to preach salvation or the precepts of Buddha; all that he asked was to be left to exist as humbly as the butterflies and the birds. ~ Eiji Yoshikawa

There's a feeling that feels like what I've been told is love. It has to do with what Louis Schwartzberg said today about beauty, love, whether it's squirrels outside my door, the rabbits, or the birds. They're not trying to impress me or anything, and me watching them isn't getting me or advancing me in anything. It's just beautiful. When I think of the relationship I'm in, there's a feeling that comes over me sometimes. ~ Daphne Zuniga

There is a quiet room inside of me.
Where I kept the thought of you so alive.
In all of my phases that's the only place where my soul would rather be.
And that's where I bring my dead roses back to life.
In that room, there is nothing to hear
But a love song of free birds.
In that room there is nothing to feel
But their flipping wings flying through my chest.
For this room has always been the peace that never fails to end my wars.
And it will always be the reason why I've never looked for home in others, as long as the warmest and safest home is there ;
Inside of me …. ~ Samiha Totanji

To a poet, the human community is like the community of birds to a bird, singing to each other. Love is one of the reasons we are singing to one another, love of language itself, love of sound, love of singing itself, and love of the other birds. ~ Sharon Olds

You ... were created to be loved. So for you to live as if you were unloved is a limitation, not the other way around ... Living unloved is like clipping a bird's wing and removing its ability to fly ... A bird is not defined by being grounded but by his ability to fly. Remember this, humans are defined not by their limitations, but by the intentions I have for them; not by what they seem to be, but by everything it means to be created in my image. Love is NOT the limitation; love is the flying. I AM love. ~ Wm. Paul Young

Know your load. That's rule numero uno in this business, which is why I make them count the penguins out in front of me one at a time. I'm not going to be the schmuck who shows up in Orlando two
birds short of a dinner party ... I know I'm pulling out of Houston with exactly forty-two Gentoo penguins, seventeen Jamaican land iguanas, four tuataras from New Zealand, and a pair of rare, civet-like mammals called linsangs. No more, no less. ~ Jacob M. Appel

If a man knew what a woman never forgets, he would love her differently. ~ Terry Tempest Williams

Fish got to swim, birds got to fly
I got to love one man till I die
Can't help lovin' dat man of mine. ~ Oscar Hammerstein II