At Candice's request, I will post my latest poem, post-wilderness workshop, on the wild parrots that frequent these parts. It was in part inspired by my own sightings (abetted by a bit of online research) and in part is a response to my blog-sister Lou's post on her own blog about a wild parrot (complete with photo!) a while back.
In the Queen Palm's swaying crown
or heavy on the pine boughs
I always hear before I see them
the wild green parrots from elsewhere.
Then only in an odd flash of bright
wings, like a sunset trick of light.
No ordinary flock, but remnants
my mother's mismatched teacups.
They gawk in groups, like tourists
nothing in common but being
out of place. Somehow
they find familiar trees:
the bulbous silk tree, clad in clouds
of silver fluff, the calm magnolia
with its lacquered leaves--those
other denizens of elsewhere--
and eat their tender fruits and seeds.
I hear the raucous calls and know
that life will thrive: moss
between the sidewalk cracks
or tree of heaven growing
spindly through the sewer grate.