I once asked a bird, how is it that you fly in this gravity of darkness? She responded, ‘love lifts me.’

As long as I live, I’ll hear waterfalls and birds and winds sing. I’ll interpret the rocks, learn the language of flood, storm, and the avalanche. I’ll acquaint myself with the glaciers and wild gardens, and get as near the heart of the world as I can.

Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.

The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?

Everything that’s realistic has some sort of ugliness in it. Even a flower is ugly when it wilts, a bird when it seeks its prey, the ocean when it becomes violent.