its voice is not a voice at all, but a familiar sound. brick on brick, ceramic crumbling, eking, “too little remains, too little remains.” it comes from within, a faint echo stuck in a hallowed chalice, placed in the depths of a mine shaft; forlorn, forgotten by flood & air to breathe. a suffocated gnash, “too little remains, too little remains.” it is her nous’ final warning cry that can only be followed by its death rattle, “no more, no more,” it begs, “too little remains, too little remains.”
The family parrot lives outside, to the right, in a poison oak tree. He’s lived on the farm since who-knows-when. “Must be damn near twice my age,” Old Jerry once said as he blocked the pink-haze sun with his speckled-banana hand and spat. The old macaw mimics the sounds of farmers passed—honking the horn of a kaput milk truck (it sits, still & obsolete by the barn) and hollering at long-dead livestock whose remains are scattered ‘round the back forty. Just bones, just bones.
Come evening, he weaves a phonic tapestry that unmistakably resembles a young lady’s night cries; unearthly and guttural, originating under the moon beams of yesteryear. She’s old now—or dead. Still, her lusty song is a nightly canon of the chalky-tongued family macaw.