“My grandmother simply shook her head and said, "You know what you saw. The bird doesn't need to be counted, and neither do you.”

“Once you know that you have a voice,” Louis said, “it’s no longer the voice that matters, but what is behind the voice.”

“I am slowly, painfully discovering that my refuge is not found in my mother, my grandmother, of even the birds of Bear River. My refuge exists in my capacity to love. If I can learn to love death then I can begin to find refuge in change.”

“I speculate over some of the Anglo nomenclature of birds: Wilson's snipe, Forster's tern . . . : What natural images do these names conjure up in our minds? What integrity do we give back to the birds with our labels.”

“I wonder what would happen if you gave up your need to be right?”

“What else are we to do with our obsessions? Do they feed us? Or are we simply scavenging our memories for one gleaming image to tell the truth of what is hunting us?”

“I pray to the birds because they remind me of what I love rather than what I fear. And at the end of my prayers, they teach me how to listen.”