The parrots rushed up out of the schoolyard tree and I tried to capture them—the vivid emerald wings against the blue, such a sight!—but my camera couldn’t manage their color and their speed, not at the same time.
I love the story, quite probably true, that these birds are descendants of some long-ago escapees. You run into them all over town; you’ll be riding along with your windows down and realize, suddenly, that you’re shouting to be heard above the din, and one of the children will cry out, “Oh, the parrots!” and everyone cranes necks to find the raucous green sky-ballet troupe. This time of year, they seem to favor our neighborhood, especially the giant Moreton bay fig tree just the other side of our backyard fence. They annoy our crows, who nest there. The crows flap up in a huff and scowl down from the power lines. The parrots just laugh.
Peeping at Spring with Poetry
Speaking of Transformation
The Sisters Have Spoken