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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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Expiration date is not required, only if you want the note to magically disappear.
A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Perhaps he has entertained veterinary pursuits of which I am unaware, but it seems odd to me that Keith would post a photo in the lower right colum of himself, probing the nether regions of a bird.
But the inconvenience of having a rare miniature condor nest in his hair didn’t annoy Harold half as much as the shocking number of hunters with no regard whatsoever for the bird’s status as an endangered species.
Scrine and I met in the oddest of places - the library - where I was searching for information on Depression era footwear, and this strange, metal bird, with a book on world domination tucked under one wing, was searching for a better way home; we hit it off immediatly and went for pie.
*the one on the left
You know the goddess in charge is pleased with you when she blesses you with one perfect black fig, ripe-to-falling-off-the-tree and yet untouched by ants and birds.
“Good morning Keith,” said the population of wild birds of Deadwood, uniting in their cacophony to deliver the message from my patio.
Flakes of rust fell to the ground as Scrine rubbed the tips of his metal wings together, the curve of a smile broke across his normally stiff beak, and his hard, rebar-constructed feet stomped at the dirt nervously, as the secret in his head grew and grew, nearing fruition.
Nothing emerges from the fire quite as glorious as a metal bird.
I find myself wondering (yet again) why Oscar, my pet bunny, would insist on inviting strange birds (yes, the kind with wings) into my open house.
Yet another day was ruined because of the duck’s stubborn refusal to stop quacking down the chimney.
“There’s only one peck missing,” the bird added, after giving her words considerable thought.
“She looked at the sky full of wheedling birds…” she stopped sudenly, almost swallowing a lungful of water “wait on, is wheedling even a word?”
The albatross looked down at the empty ocean nearly 3000 feet below her and thought, “This cramp in my wing is going to be the death of me.”
Birds know a lot more than you think, but cats pretty much let it all hang out.
Wise man say: The early bird gets the worm; the early weasel gets the nice plump early bird.
Some days are so gloriously sunny and full of lambs that are actually frollicking, fruit trees that are heavily blooming and birds that are deliriously chirping, that any minute you fully expect something literally magical to happen.
New bird enthusiasts of Oregon’s Willamette Valley are often fooled by the Bluespackle grouse’s serene and trusting nature, which in reality is nothing more than a thin-veneer which hides an aggressive and powerful peck.
I would have liked very much to have watched the birds with you, Doris, hopping about just outside the window, going on about their business as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
As the multi-hued birds landed on the heads of the various wildebeests and giant mamals, the contents inside of the red, red rose started to shake and to shimmer.
I know there are some who worry incessantly that ducks are up to no good, but personally, it’s the terror bird I’m losing sleep over.
Minimalist Jones once had a horrible squabble
With a turkey that’d never quite learned how to gobble,
The turkey just stood there, eyes straight ahead
Understanding not a single word that was said;
It’s Thanksgiving, you see, Minimalist Jones told the bird
Who then fluffed up his feathers, as if maybe he’d heard,
You don’t have to like it, we can just call it fate,
But you, my fine bird, will be served up on a plate;
Some say the turkey pecked Jones on the knees,
Then opened his beak and let out a big sneeze;
Others say he blinked as Jones grabbed his red neck,
Flapping his wings as he screamed, “What the heck!”
The giant sat slumped over his keyboard, his fingers twitching furtively, and as his little rusty birds chirped and cheered “50,000”, he smiled in his wordless sleep.
coming in this evening in the just-twilight, i was confronted, perched on the edge of the dry cement birdbath but facing outward instead of where the water wasn’t, with a smallish, grey, birdish shape—not a fuzzbaby, but then again not more than an adolescent, perhaps half a foot tall, more the height of a squirrel, really—that looked full at me with round, dilated eyes, arresting my progress as i quietly exclaimed “why, small owl!” but he, apparently, had imbibed enough of me by then to decide i was indeed a people there in the gloaming, just as i had needed a moment to decide indeed he was an owl, and so he raised his smallish wings and flew sideways into a bush.
Why did the chicken cross the information superhighway?
Returning to the “dating scene” after years of marriage can be frustrasting for the recently divorced especially if your talent is mimicing the mating cries of several North American bird species.
Birds zotted past like stars, in the wind.
Kiwi birds rule!
Of course, everyone knows birds are no good with dates and failing to realize the paper was old, the costumes they’d cobbled together were sooo last season that the gig was essentially up before it began.
“Look, it isn’t brilliant, hell it probably won’t even work, but it’s the best plan we’ve got and we’re going to run with it, so put on that costume, stop your whining and start acting like a damn monkey” said one budgie to the other, all the while tweaking his own disguise to ensure he looked just like the picture of Michael Jackson on the front page of The Weekly World News.
I’ve had nothing but good luck since I was shat upon by a bird on Chinese New Years Day, so perhaps there is something to the superstition that says it’s good luck.
Come out and drive the tractor, the bird chirped through the window, and so I did.
“The Pigeon itself, as every bird, is the symbol of the genital… .”
Our neighborhood is so dull this morning that even the hawk who’s been circling on the lookout for hours just flew off without finding anything worth swooping down for.
There is no best way to spend the final hour before going to work on a Sunday morning, but sitting outside in the cool air, soaking in warm sun and hot coffee while listening to birds seems as good a way as any.
A morning like this is not for the faint of heart, what with all the light and birds chirping and fresh air and all.
If the birds don’t quit stealing all of the cat hair off of my back porch, I’m afraid it’s going to lose that charming Southern backwoods feel I’ve worked so hard at attaining; what are they going to do next, carry off the recliner and washtub?
By their very nature—round shoulders, leaning incline, etc.—the bird is in a constant, albeit fluid, state of stoop, making it unnecessary for the casual observer to use the word stoop when recording a description of the bird in their field journal, unless, of course, the bird happens to be standing on a stoop, although even then the bird enthusiast should never write stooped on stoop.
Bob looked at the line up of birds and he paraded up and down with a seeming casual air which was betrayed whenever he turned suddenly and yelled “BOT!” at an unsuspecting bird.
Last year a small bird drowned in our pool and was discovered by one of my son’s friends as they all plunged into the water without looking; but I like this year’s retelling of the story much better than last year’s, because now the story includes not a small dead sparrow, but rather a three-foot, black crow floating straight-up in the water (“and I swear this part is true, Dad”) with dead eyes that won’t look away.
Michael looked around, noted a significant rise in the negametric pressure, and opened his mouth sending forth a stream of little purple birds on a mission to find and awaken Becky, so they could join forces for some uplifting playfulness.
As Michael burped surprisingly at the little purple birds, he noticed an effervescent presence poised delightedly on his window sill and she appeared to be holding a writhing, smirking bunch of Fluevogs.
“They really are social creatures once you get to know them,” Henry said, pointing to the tiny hummingbird nest in his left ear.
Although the bird pecked at the typewriter for more than a year, he was never able to produce a believable screenplay.
Without his crown, the Frown Face King’s already unruly hair became even more twisted and snarled as he searched along the village shops, peeking under boxes and wagons, knocking over vendor tables until apples and quillons seemed to roll through every street, though no child dared dart out and grab one until the king was long gone; and as he scrambled in vain through the fields and the thicket, clawing his way through brush nearly as thick as the hair on his head, things began to get stuck in the Frown Face King’s wild mass of hair—things like twigs and leaves, skeins of yarn, a half-eaten pork sandwich, a tea pot, a hay fork, a bird nest with two featherless and wide-eyed chicks too scared to cheep, and what appeared to be Constable Wickman’s monocle (although in fairness, could have been one-half of the widow Charleton’s reading glasses, which had been missing for quite some time.)
Donald couldn’t understand why the website titled Boobies & Tits was plastered with pictures of small birds.
Although he’d never seen the Doves of Ambiguity, Peter worried that the two nesting in his head were only the scout birds, and that one day as dusk was settling in on his sleepy little imagination, the whole flock would arrive, squeezing into his head to begin building their summer nests.
Yesterday I saw a dozen crows trying to attack/distract the hawk that was eating their babies, and in the process had the honor of seeing an absolutely perfect “injured bird” performance flight.
Peter, that romantic, called them “Doves of Ambiguity,” but really they were Pigeons of Destiny and the flock that would soon arrive would be of epic, Hitchcockian proprortions.
The best way to hide your true nature is to use a little ambiguity.
Lawrence sat impatiently waiting to see what was going happen after he added a nice big marijuana bud to the syrup in the hummingbird feeder.
Yesterday at the train station when all the other passengers headed for the exit, rather than blindly follow them happenstance dictated that I turn the other way to see a crow, with its head stuck in a lidded plastic cup, manage to stumble across to the platform’s edge, avoid falling into the gap, shove its head (with attached cup) into the geometric center of the closing doors and allow the doors to close, drawing back its head the exact moment before it would have been crushed, thus freeing itself.
I may have accidently moved into a bird-free zone.
Some mornings, the birds seem to be everywhere, flying at top speed and, maybe, doing it just for the fun of it.
At some pre-arranged signal, dozens of miniature raptors burst forth from the magnolia trees and swooped low across the Capitol lawn, scattering school children and lunchtime joggers.
Toodie and Lorrit came to regret having built their nest in the swaying palm tree; months went by, yet they could never quite gain their sea-wings.
They’re pretty bloody cheeky, when you think about it.
You think ducks are trouble…
Unlike most aquatic birds, it is thought that decedents of The Duck have the ability to make their own bread because oftentimes they float around paying no mind to any grain lobbed their way, though no one has ever caught a Misses The Duck in an apron, yet.
It is inevitable that one may, from time to time, become lost and disoriented when in the wilderness, which can, unfortunately, lead to dehydration and delirium; try to keep in mind that while many of the birds may be trying to give you advice when you find yourself in such a state, they have their own agendas and should not be trusted, particularly the grackle.
Today I was speaking to a friend who had to move from a loud street into a park so he could hear me better; in the park I could hardly understand him over all the birdsong.
On rainy days the English crows flew in circles, some clockwise, some counterclockwise, depending upon which wing they held their umbrella.
The velocity of feces falling towards a human’s head is measured in mischiefs per swoop.
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