Can you say bird?

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So. You know I cruise around the blogosphere a lot right? Sometimes I wonder if I’m becoming a bit too good at it… because sometimes I find myself mentally yawning and thinking oh, i’ve seen that already. and that. and that, too.

I guess that’s what happens. And I’m good at spotting the way things will makes their way around the internet. And other little internet trends. And over the past month-or-so-ish I’ve been noticing little fabric/handmade birds. It’s not like it’s huge or anything, I just noticed two different handmade little art birdies featured in one day, and every now and then I spot another, and for some reason it made a little tick in my head and I saved a few of them.

I’m not a bird sculpture freak, but I’m curious about this apparent spreading little interest in them. There was a little birdie trend not so long ago…. in jewelry, and prints. I’ve always liked them. I have a really rad little bird necklace my bestie got for me for my birthday. So yes. Birds. Handmade. Crocheted. Etc. LOOK!

Louise Weaver

spotted via

Abby Glassenberg

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Abigail Brown

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Lauren Alane


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They are all lovely, aren’t they? Maybe we like birds because of their wings. Because they can fly away at will. And we relate, sometimes, to feeling caged.

But birds are such beautiful colorful, hopeful creatures. And they can sing. Even if they’re caged.

I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

-Maya Angelou

(Don’t mind me, my mind runs in tangents)

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