Utterance is like mercury. You press it down here and it pops up there.
This parrot, as effulgent in its quilted feathers as finely worked gold, and buoyed up by a clamour of scarlet, sanguine tulips (a field of silenced mouths), is almost resigned to its brutalizing muteness.
But the bird is too exquisite for soundlessness. It will die without its rasping yawk!
And so all around it, the trees have begun to rub and crackle together in sympathy, lending a new green voice to the parrot’s punishing hush.
