Osprey Quotes

Maybe its like you said before, all of us being cracked open. Like each of us starts out as a watertight vessel. And then things happen - these people leave us, or don’t love us, or don’t get us, or we don’t get them, and we lose and fail and hurt one another. And the vessel starts to crack in places. And I mean, yeah once the vessel cracks open, the end becomes inevitable. Once it starts to rain inside the Osprey, it will never be remodeled. But there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart. And its only that time that we see one another, because we see out of ourselves through our cracks and into others through theirs. When did we see each other face to face? Not until you saw into my cracks and I saw into yours. Before that we were just looking at ideas of each other, like looking at your window shade, but never seeing inside. But once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out.

The Ospreys, these children, were my life. Without them, I had nothing. But with them… With them, I would take back my kingdom.

Pachelbel’s Canon filled the sun-drowned room where they learned each other and even then the fear flickered across him like an osprey’s shadow: This is too good to live for long.

I think he'll be to Rome as is the osprey to the fish, who takes it by sovereignty of nature.

Goal: Clean air, clean clear-running rivers, the presence of Pelican and Osprey and Gray Whale in our lives; salmon and trout in our streams; unmuddied language and good dreams.

Never, even among animals, does the creature born to be a dove change into an osprey. That is only seen among men.

Ghost bird, do you love me?" he whispered once in the dark, before he left for hs expedition training, even though he was the ghost. "Ghost bird, do you need me?" I loved him, but I didn't need him, and I thought that was the way it was supposed to be. A ghost bird might be a hawk in one place, a crow in another, depending on the context. The sparrow that shot up into the blue sky one morning might transform mid-flight into an osprey the next. This was the way of things here. There were no reasons so mighty that they could override the desire to be in accord with the tides and the passage of seasons and the rhythms underlying everything around me.

A sign warned her to keep a lookout for river otters, osprey—what the heck were osprey?—and bald eagles.

It is spruce and pine and hemlock country, deerfly and punkie and blackfly country, wool and four-wheel-drive country, loon and osprey and raven country. My kind of country.

Never, even among animals, does the creature born to be a dove change into an osprey. That is only to be seen among men.

Maybe it’s more like you said before, all of us being cracked open, like, each of us starts out as a watertight vessel, and these things happen, these people leave us, or don’t love us, or don’t get us, or we don’t get them, and we lose and fail and hurt one another. And the vessel starts to crack open in places, and I mean, yeah, once the vessel cracks open, the end becomes inevitable, once it starts to rain inside the Osprey, it will never be remodeled, but there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart, and it’s only in that time that we can see one another, because we see out of ourselves through our cracks, and into others through theirs. When did we see each other face to face? Not until you saw into my cracks, and I saw into yours. Before that, we were just looking at ideas of each other, like looking at your window shade, but never seeing inside. But once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out.

The rain in Florida may be bad for us and good for the citrus crop. A canceled flight may wreck our schedule and bring us face to face with our future spouse in the airport lounge. A forest fire may seem to destroy an ecosystem in the short term, yet renew it with vigor for the long term. When a splendid osprey eats a beautiful fish, it is neither good nor bad. Or, it’s good for the osprey and bad for the fish. Nature makes no judgment. Humans do.

It must be remembered that the Iliad and Odyssey were composed as epic tales and not as historical texts. To use Shakespeare's Macbeth as a source for 11th-century Scottish politics would rather miss the point of the play, and the same is true of the Homeric epics.

I didn't see it coming. That the great ospreys of the wetlands were after us. I was just basking in the sun, regurgitating with my offspring in our knitted nest. Ospreys said they were taking us under their wings. That we never had to worry about food ever again. Days went by, I realized they took our flying away." Birds of Prey--They Move Away Like Waves.

CRYING OSPREYS Merrily the ospreys cry, On the islet in the stream. Gentle and graceful is the girl, A fit wife for the gentleman.

If one thing was clear, it was that the average American civilian lived under the constant threat of a chemical or biological attack. Even with the strides the government had made over the past two decades with organizing first responder teams, they were all just one accident or attack away from Armageddon. If Gibson had his way, the public would remain in the dark. That’s why Beckham was sitting with a team of ‘ghosts’ in an Osprey. They existed for the sole purpose of making sure the average civilian had no idea just how close they were to the apocalypse.

So, you are now talking to birds?” Hanlon glanced back from looking up at the tree the crow sat in and said, “Not all birds, just crows, oh, and hawks and eagles, sometimes ospreys, but never vultures.” She laughed at his attempt at humor, “Why don’t you talk to vultures?” “Well, Sassy, because vultures aren’t very good conversationalists. Doug Hiser -Montana Mist coming soon 2010

I wanted to throw up. But I would have had to get out of bed to run to the bathroom. And I felt like I never wanted to leave that bed again. I love animals. I've been raised all my life around them. I love nature. But what did I really know about it? I have been more animals than many people ever see in a lifetime. I have flown with the wings of an osprey. I've raced through the ocean in the body of a dolphin. I've seen the world through the eyes of an owl at night, and smelled the wind with all the keen senses of a wolf. I've flown upside down and backward in the body of a fly. Sometimes I go out into the far fields at night and become a horse and run through the grass. And everything I've been, every animal, is either killer or killed. In a million, million battles all around the world, on every continent, in every square inch of space, there was killing. From the great cats in Africa that cold-bloodedly search out the young and weak gazelles, to the terrible wars that are fought out in anthills and termite colonies. All of nature was at war. And, at the top of all that destruction, humans killed each other as well as other species, and now those same people have been enslaved and destroyed by the Yeerks. Nature at its finest. Cute, cuddly animals who slaughtered to live. The color of nature wasn't green. It was red. Blood-red.

Mind Wanting More Only a beige slat of sun above the horizon, like a shade pulled not quite down. Otherwise, clouds. Sea rippled here and there. Birds reluctant to fly. The mind wants a shaft of sun to stir the grey porridge of clouds, an osprey to stitch sea to sky with its barred wings, some dramatic music: a symphony, perhaps a Chinese gong. But the mind always wants more than it has -- one more bright day of sun, one more clear night in bed with the moon; one more hour to get the words right; one more chance for the heart in hiding to emerge from its thicket in dried grasses -- as if this quiet day with its tentative light weren't enough, as if joy weren't strewn all around.

Tots estem esquerdats. Tots comencem sent un vaixell hermètic, un compartiment estanc. I passen coses; la gent ens deixa, o no ens estima, o no ens entén, o no els entenem nosaltres, i ens perdem i ens decebem i ens ferim mútuament. I el vaixell es comença a esquerdar per molts llocs. I, és clar, un cop s'esquerda el vaixell, el final esdevé inevitable. Un cop comença a ploure a dins de l'Osprey, ja no el reformaran mai més. Però hi ha tot un lapse de temps entre que es comencen a obrir les esquerdes fins que finalment ens trenquem. I és només durant aquest temps que ens podem veure, perquè nosaltres ens veiem a través de les escardes i veiem l'interior dels altres a través de les seves esquerdes. Quan ens hem vist cara a cara? No ha estat fins que tu m'has vist a través de les meves esquerdes i jo t'he vist a través de les teves. Abans, només miràvem idees d'un i altre, com quan mirava el teu estor però sense veure l'interior de l'habitació. Però un cop el vaixell s'esquerda, la llum hi pot entrar. La llum en pot sortir.

Quizás es mas como dijiste antes, que todos estamos agrietados. Cada uno de nosotros empieza siendo un recipiente hermético. Y pasan cosas. Personas que nos dejan, o que no nos quieren, o que no nos entienden, o a los que no entendemos, y nos perdemos, nos fallamos y nos hacemos daño. Y el recipiente empieza a agrietarse por algunos sitios. Y, si, en cuanto el recipiente se agrieta, el final es inevitable. En cuanto empieza a entrar la lluvia dentro de Osprey, ya nunca será remodelado. Pero esta todo ese tiempo desde que las grietas empiezan a abrirse hasta que por fin nos desmoronamos. Y solo en ese tiempo podemos vernos unos a otros, porque vemos lo que hay afuera a través de nuestras grietas, y lo que hay adentro se nos ve también a través de ellas. ¿Cuándo nos vimos tu y yo cara a cara? No hasta que me viste entre mis grietas, y yo a ti entre las tuyas. Hasta ese momento solo veíamos ideas del otro, como mirar tu persiana, pero sin ver lo que hay adentro. Pero cuando el recipiente se rompe, la luz puede entrar. Y puede salir.

For many years, a family of ospreys lived in a large nest near my summer home in Maine. Each season, I carefully observed their rituals and habits. In mid-April, the parents would arrive, having spent the winter in South America, and lay eggs. In early June, the eggs hatched. The babies slowly grew, as the father brought fish back to the nest, and in early to mid August were large enough to make their first flight. My wife and I recorded all of these comings and goings with cameras and in a notebook. We wrote down the number of chicks each year, usually one or two but sometimes three. We noted when the chicks first began flapping their wings, usually a couple of weeks before flying from the nest. We memorized the different chirps the parents made for danger, for hunger, for the arrival of food. After several years of cataloguing such data, we felt that we knew these ospreys. We could predict the sounds the birds would make in different situations, their flight patterns, their behavior when a storm was brewing. Reading our “osprey journals” on a winter’s night, we felt a sense of pride and satisfaction. We had carefully studied and documented a small part of the universe. Then, one August afternoon, the two baby ospreys of that season took flight for the first time as I stood on the circular deck of my house watching the nest. All summer long, they had watched me on that deck as I watched them. To them, it must have looked like I was in my nest just as they were in theirs. On this particular afternoon, their maiden flight, they did a loop of my house and then headed straight at me with tremendous speed. My immediate impulse was to run for cover, since they could have ripped me apart with their powerful talons. But something held me to my ground. When they were within twenty feet of me, they suddenly veered upward and away. But before that dazzling and frightening vertical climb, for about half a second we made eye contact. Words cannot convey what was exchanged between us in that instant. It was a look of connectedness, of mutual respect, of recognition that we shared the same land. After they were gone, I found that I was shaking, and in tears. To this day, I do not understand what happened in that half second. But it was one of the most profound moments of my life.

From his bedroom window on the Marine Corps Base in Quantico, Nathaniel Dixon watched in awe at the four-ship formation of V-22 Ospreys chewing up the Virginia air with their massive, wingtip-mounted tilt rotors as they made a pass over the flight line. The aircraft grew in his window as they approached the small bungalow he lived in with his mother and father on base. Just before they flew out of sight, Nathaniel clapped his hands together over the window and imagined smashing each Osprey like a dragonfly. Then, he imagined each falling to earth in flames, smashing in a great ball of fire in his backyard.

Siblicide. It sounds cruel, but the survival of many bird species like osprey, owls, egrets, and kingfishers depends upon some chicks offing their brothers and sisters.

Clara once had a dream that she was a bird, flying high over hills, cliffs and the ocean. She dreamt she flew down towards the waves with her powerful wings and used her sharp talons to snatch a fish out of the water to eat. When Clara woke up, she looked on the internet to find out if there were any real birds that ate fish. She realised that she had dreamed of being an osprey,

Age: 10 Height: 5’3 Favourite animal: Osprey   Clara once had a dream that she was a bird, flying high over hills, cliffs and the ocean. She dreamt she flew down towards the waves with her powerful wings and used her sharp talons to snatch a fish out of the water to eat. When Clara woke up, she looked on the internet to find out if there were any real birds that ate fish. She realised that she had dreamed of being an osprey, which is a rare ‘eagle of the sea’, and ever since then Clara has wondered whether there is such a thing as the supernatural: dreams that have special meanings, spirits walking the world, and magical creatures that may or may not have existed many centuries ago, like dragons, fairies and unicorns.   Because of this interest, she can often be found surfing the internet whilst she researches interesting animals and the habitats they live in. Like Benjamin, she loves nature and likes to spend as much time as possible outdoors. Also like Ben, her goals for the future include travelling around the world. She would like to visit the countries of India and South-East Asia. She would especially like to see wild orang-utans in the forests of Indonesia.   She also hopes to one day be a real life detective, so that she can help people. She says, “Helping people is the most important thing in the world. Without that desire, there would be no Cluefinders Club to help the people who need it!” She loves to read books, especially mystery stories. Clara is considered the founder of the Cluefinders Club, and her bedroom is the place they like to meet most evenings to talk about detective stories and mysteries they might be able to solve.  

he caught sight of the osprey, wheeling overhead, flying in wide circles. He hovered in the air, borne by the breeze. He made it look so easy—-just floating in the air, lazily flying over the beach and sea. But Zeb knew the bird was hunting, fighting to stay alive, riding through all the dangers hidden by the beautiful day.

A ghost bird might be a hawk in one place, a crow in another, depending on the context. The sparrow that shot up into the blue sky one morning might transform mid-flight into an osprey the next. This was the way of things here. There were no reasons so mighty that they could override the desire to be in accord with the tides and the passage of seasons and the rhythms underlying everything around me.

COME, BUTTERCHURN, COME Buttermilk to the wrist, butter to the elbow; Come, butterchurn, come. Buttermilk to the wrist, butter to the elbow; Come, butterchurn, come. There’s a glug here, there’s a glack here; There’s a glack here, there’s a glug here, There’s something better here than you’d expect, There’s something better than wine here. Come, butterchurn, come. The thrush will come, the blackbird will come, The mist will come from the hill, The cuckoo will come, the jackdaw will come, The father osprey will come. Come, butterchurn, come. —traditional Irish song for churning

hard drive. She’s holding out for the prime shot, the photograph that will get her more Instagram followers and result in paid downloads on the stock image websites. Such shots are few and far between. But today is her lucky day. An osprey flies in from the right, his clawed feet landing gear as he

New York City life

guarantee you that they will be as fresh as if I had,

had been rather modest

Small it may be, but there is a bed to sleep on at night, and a place to sit in the daytime. As a simple place to house myself, it lacks nothing. The hermit crab prefers a little shell for his home. He knows what the world holds. The osprey chooses the wild shoreline, and this is because he fears mankind. And I too am the same. Knowing what the world holds and its ways, I desire nothing from it, nor chase after its prizes. My one craving is to be at peace, my one pleasure to live free of troubles.

two carat platinum

car, in New York City,

in the city.

That was why stories on outrageous schedule delays and cost overruns were a staple for reporters on the Pentagon beat. Development schedules and cost estimates for major military hardware—especially aircraft—were almost always ridiculously optimistic. The incentive on both sides, for the military and for the contractors, was to shoot for the moon and worry later about how much they were going to miss it by.

Jake, I don't want to be a bug. I've been a gorilla, an osprey, a dolphin, a seagull, a trout, of all things, a lobster... and I'm probably forgetting a few. Gorilla was fun. Dolphin was fun. Osprey was fun. Ant? Not fun. Basically, bugs are a bad idea." Jake shrugged. "I was a flea. That was no big thing. ... "Jake? Do you ever listen to yourself?" -Animorphs #5, The Predator page 36

The vista from atop the poinciana was timeless and serene—a long string of egrets crossing the distant ’glades; a squadron of white pelicans circling a nearby bay; a pair of ospreys hovering kitelike above a tidal creek. It was a perfect picture and a perfect silence.

There are halibut as big as doors in the ocean down below the town, flapskimming on the murky ocean floor with vast skates and rays and purple crabs and black cod large as logs, and sea lions slashing through the whip-forests of bull kelp and eelgrass and sugar wrack, and seals in the rockweed and giant perennial kelp and iridescent kelp and iridescent fish and luminous shrimp too small to see with the naked eye but billions of which feed the gray whales which slide hugely slowly by like rubbery zeppelins twice a year, north in spring and south in fall. Salmonberries, thimbleberries, black raspberries, gooseberries, bearberries, snowberries, salal berries, elderberries, blackberries along the road and by the seasonal salt marshes north and south. The ground squirrels burrow along the dirt banks of the back roads, their warren of mysterious holes, the thick scatter of fine brown soil before their doorsteps, the flash of silver-gray on their back fur as they rocket into the bushes; the bucks and does and fawns in the road in the morning, their springy step as they slip away from the gardens they have been eating; the bobcat seen once, at dusk, its haunches jacked up like a teenager's hot-rodding car; the rumor of cougar in the hills; the coyotes who use the old fire road in the hills; the tiny mice and bats one sometimes finds long dead and leathery like ancient brown paper; the little frenetic testy chittering skittering cheeky testy chickaree squirrels in the spruces and pines - Douglas squirrels, they are, their very name remembering that young gentleman botanist who wandered near these hills centuries ago. The herons in marshes and sinks and creeks and streams and on the beach sometimes at dusk; and the cormorants and pelicans and sea scoters and murres (poor things so often dead young on the beach after the late-spring fledging) and jays and crows and quorking haunted ravens (moaning Poe! Poe! at dusk) especially over the wooded hills, and the goldfinches mobbing thistles in the meadowed hills, and sometimes a falcon rocketing by like a gleeful murderous dream, and osprey of all sizes all along the Mink like an osprey police lineup, and the herring gulls and Caspian terns and arctic terns, and the varied thrushes in wet corners of thickets, and the ruffed grouse in the spruce by the road, and the quail sometimes, and red-tailed hawks floating floating floating; from below they look like kites soaring brownly against the piercing blue sky, which itself is a vast creature bluer by the month as summer deepens into crispy cold fall.

It’s mine. Marianne is calling. I better go. Let’s