The situation stole all majesty from
the only flock of wild parrots
either of us would ever see.

I moved his hospital chair closer,
angled it to share the blue-green plumage
that called to us in a pale daybreak.

I doubt he’d ever given much thought
to what it could mean, this migration
seen on the way home from a war.

His face settled to one side,
moved in soft spasms.
The stiff dot-matrix tickets
sat in his shirt pocket.

His eyes seemed hard-pressed
to grasp simple coordination,
observe how the parrots played

in this course of colored flight,
how the course did it’s changing
without any reason.

Their red underbellies staining the air
perhaps not the best sight
following a hemorrhage on the brain,
beautiful array of chatter
dancing in what remained of the sun.

I watched life breaching.
He tried to reach for his tickets
but his hand cramped, fell against his lap.

Then I saw how quickly he lost all
interest, gave no more consideration
to this flock of wild parrots.

They flew from our vision and it became
uncomfortable.

I went back to the war,
and he flew home.