The Green Parrot Hour

I’m sitting outside during the “green parrot hour” – twilight, after the sun has set but before its truly evening.  This time of night, and the earliest fingers of morning, brings out the local wild parrots.  Their screech is unmistakable.  I remember the first time I heard them,  as I peeked in the window of the 1920’s bungalow I thought would soon be mine.  The cacophony frightened me; I thought their shrieking was a bad sign.  Now, they’re a part of my life – sometimes just a half-dozen and other times, I could swear there are 60 or more.  They are a reminder that some things are enduring.  Construction may go on around our enclave, gangs and traffic and pollution may encroach, but the parrots continue on, unmindful of  the changes in the neighborhood.


Tonight is gray. A sprinkle lands on my arm and one on my cheek.  It’s cool for this time of year, reminding me of late October more than June.  I’m on vacation this week, although not a vacation that most would take.  I’m home, relaxing with no plans to go anywhere.  I need this time to ground myself again.  The fervor of my life, the incessant traveling has left me unsettled, tired and worn out.  I don’t think I’ve spoken to anyone for two days – and I feel peaceful.


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