An ode to Yacolt’s parrots
O monk parakeet, o escapee from parrot prison:
You soar above the flood, you snuggle into the wind, your green plumage rustling.
You clutch the utility poles that help bring electricity to the families of Yacolt.
You build elaborate nests amid the braided wires, the ceramic insulators, the occasional cherry-pickers.
You are far from your home country, south of the equator. You no longer whistle exclusively in Spanish or Portuguese, but in English or Spanish, depending.
You entered America legally, but now live outside the system. You cheerfully tax our social services, to the ire of utility companies, bird-watching purists and our native varied thrushes.
You rouse us to passionate activism, even though a thimble can contain your brains. Some want to send you home, trap you in cages or simply snap you from your perches with slingshots or pellet guns. They call you feral because of the lifestyle you have chosen. You cannot rest.
O noble bird, O Quaker Parrot, O lost feathery soul, forgive us our ambivalence about you. For we are human and we don’t like invasive species, excepting ourselves. Yet we admire your thirst for freedom, your stubborn nest-building, your greedy chicks, your clackety calls and your attachment to Clark County, despite its traffic problems and sales tax.
You enrich us, O exotic denizen of the treetops. You come to us by an unusual path, but our region is full of transplants, much like yourselves.
Stay. Judge us not by the behavior of Yacolt’s electrical utility. Perch on, O parakeet!