The Flight of the Parrot

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The Flight of the Parrot

On a Tuesday, at half past eight,
She stood, parrot-faced, at the garden gate.
Her nose, a beak, her eyes, twin perches of green,
The Banks family stared—half stunned, half serene.

“Goodbye!” they shouted, though none knew why
As her parrot umbrella unfolded to the sky.
The feathers—painted or real, who could tell?
Glinted like secrets the clouds wouldn’t spell.

The wind, a trickster, whistled a tune,
While chimney sweeps danced with brooms on the moon.
“Come back, Mrs. Parrot! Or whoever you are!”
But she laughed like a bird fleeing a cage made of tar.

The children clutched kites, the father his hat,
The mother held teacups; they were fine with all that.
They waved as she soared, absurd and divine,
Her silhouette framed by a sun out of line.

Through the firmament, she vanished in hue,
Parrot-faced, parrot-winged, parrot-true.
The Banks family sighed, their chaos now tame—
And no one asked if they’d remembered her name.

With the help of ChatGBT