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“Intuitions are like migratory birds, they come without a map without a reason.”
― Amit Ray, Walking the Path of Compassion

“Later, Ella looked for the two swallows in the eaves outside the window, watching them even more closely now. The thought of them flying all that way, across mountains and seas and returning here, because this was their home - of them knowing how to find it - changed things. It was a new way of seeing; this was no longer just the place where women and men were kept, but the home of other creatures too, ones that had travelled far and still chosen it because this, above all other places, was the place to bring their families into the world.”
― Anna Hope, The Ballroom

“Animals rise through a slope toward the summit like migratory
birds over an amavasya sky. I watch a mountain loop our prayers
like an echo through the darkness. A glistening comet appears
across the sky, a streak of purple phosphorescence, as a row of
earthen lamps lit over a porch.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“I am happy to know that not all species are forced to need passports and visas to experience new lands.”
― Rajesh`, Random Cosmos

“I set up the skin of Estelle's bird number 5, the marbled godwit---- a migratory visitor to Florida, like me. I draw the beak twice as long as the head, tapering down to the width of a knitting needle, then fill in the back and wings with terrazzo mottling, brown and black and white. It has long legs and an exquisite neck. I hope this bird gets a prominent place in the exhibit.
On my second sheet, a young woman kneels on black soil, her back to the viewer, dark hair in a chignon. She pulls at the weeds that crowd her precious bee balm, betony, dock, and rue. She wipes her cheek with the back of her wrist, avoiding the dirt on her glove.
I should go see my mother today, but to be honest, I don't feel like it. Yes, she's an oldish person, displaced from her home, who might count on someone to come and break her solitude. But that journal entry... I simmered while Loni played... gives new color to my lifelong weariness.
Godwit. I draw the bird flying blessedly north, displaying her gorgeous cinnamon wings.”
― Virginia Hartman, The Marsh Queen