An American Haibun
by Ellaraine Lockie
Mini-flocks of eight or ten wild parrots often emblazon the trees in my yard. A stopover en route to or from the Home Depot parking lot. As though picking up supplies for ongoing nest repair.
Green red and yellow
packages slur the airwaves
Jingle of chatter
Today bells ring the sky from blocks away. The entire flock arrives as I close the front door behind me for my walk. The surreal surprise of sixty-some parrots. Bodies built for South America that have branched the skies of Northern California for thirty years. Their evolution from a few slave-traded rebels and rejects. And their sheer spirit for survival stops me mid-step.
Ornaments on palm
filbert cherry blackberry
Breeze of wings folding
I refuse to relinquish either the exercise or the parrots. So I walk fast circles around the driveway. Tree-to-tree talk, as affable as small town gossip over clotheslines. Drowning echoes of the morning's Mercury crime-corruption-jobless-foreclosure-war News. . . and the crinkle of worry by fingers on fabric over a breast lump.
Beaks fill with nectar
from eucalyptus blossoms
Bright pink petals fall
Dizzy now, I switch to a house-wide back and forth stride. Envision that every Silicon Valley soul in torment could line up right here. Like the way back-to-belly cars parade slowly around this cul-de-sac to see Christmas lights.
Sprinkler shower play
Parrots groom one another
The sun sends glitter
Every feather a rainbow. Every squawk an upbeat, a hallelujah. An invitation to plan the next thirty years. Even the native crows acquiesce their territory to this gift. But it is I who am repaired.
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