Here I am a prisoner, with a view. My view is looking out on this drab corner of human existence. The weather and the time of year account for some of the drabness. It is early spring and the sun is making a half hearted effort. There are houses (colonial – I think), shops, and a clock tower with flags. It is mid day. There is constant traffic; cars and trunks passing. Some people are going about their day; carrying heavy pictures, shopping, jogging, cycling. Interestingly, the one bit of colour comes from these sporty types, apparently one ought to dress in banana yellow to jog or cycle, who knew?

I sit on my perch taking it all in. Well, what else is there to do.  My fine red and green feathers are tired looking. I am well fed with nuts and raisins, without even having to forage. I have a silly silver round thing in the cage with me. I assume it is to see my reflection in. A poor substitute for the deep dark pools in the verdant rain forest. It is a far cry from the cacophony of life that is my home. I don’t know how these creatures can bear it, the lack of colour, textures and smells. Poor stunted lives they lead.

They have the same trouble sexing us as we do them. To a parrot I am clearly a male Red-lored Amazon. They call me “Pretty Polly” and ask “Who is a clever girl?” Well, what can I expect, from these dullards?

These wingless creatures have no idea of the joy of flight. They have no idea of how essential it is to a being’s welfare and happiness. Their babies die without physical contact, regardless that all other needs are met. That’s how it is for us without flight we die inside. We cease to be. I heard it on their vision box: – I am in fact a dead parrot.

Liz Hiddleston