, , , ,

The parrots appear one day – seven of them –
squawking excitedly, flying in staggered
formation just above the treetops.

Quite a commotion they make,
as if passing bits of gossip from one to another
round-robin – or rather, round-parrot style.

When they finally settle into a tree,
each selecting a different branch so that their
emerald green, yellow, and red feathered bodies
decorate the sparse limbs like just so many
Christmas ornaments, they continue their
raucous conversation begun far away
and long before appearing in this parking lot
leading to the job I’d love to quit.

And their banter, so full of joy and intrigue,
to continue as they soon burst from the tree
and fly away, sounds to these human ears
like the cacophony of freedom.