Black silhouette design of a flock of birds flying upward beside fine script reading "with my God given Grace I will carry on", shown on a plain white background.

Flock of birds with script quote

Lettering · Black and grey · Flash

A digital tattoo design of around fifteen black bird silhouettes in flight, rising from lower left to upper right, with cursive script text running through the middle of the flock. The birds are solid black with soft feathered edges, while the handwritten lettering is thin and fine. The design is black on a plain white background with no skin or shading visible.

Lettering Bird Flock Flying bird Script Quote Silhouette

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow has been falling since Tuesday, and by Thursday the lane below the inn has vanished under it, so you stop asking the landlady when the road will open and start learning the rhythm of the house instead. Mrs Haworth rises before the kettle. She lays the fire in the back parlour with newspaper and split ash, hums hymns you half recognise, and pauses only to tell you the porridge is on the hob and not to touch the blue jug.

Keep reading

On the third morning you find her at the window of the coffee room with her coat already buttoned. Beyond the wall, a flock of starlings lifts from the bare hawthorn all at once, as if someone has shaken the branches, and climbs in a ragged line over the drifts toward the grey ridge. She does not point. She says her late husband used to count them, and that he never once reached the end of the count before they turned.

You try to count them yourself. Fourteen, fifteen, and then the flock folds in on itself and the number is gone. Mrs Haworth laughs, a dry sound, and tells you the plough has been seen at the top of the moor, so the road should open by Saturday. She says it the way you would say a prayer you have said for years, steady, without waiting for an answer.

On Saturday you leave with your bag over your shoulder and the lane crunching under your boots. Behind you the hawthorn stands empty, and above the ridge the birds are going somewhere warmer, keeping their line, carrying on.