We had an African Grey Parrot who was quite the talker. Named Pushkin. He could recite Blake: Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies, Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, Dare seize the fire? No foolin'. Perfectly understandable. And on bright, sunny days such as we've had recently in the south of France, he was known to say: The sun is shining. The birds are singing. And Pushkin-bird is happy as a clam. No foolin'. We gifted Pushkin to a friend when we moved across the Pond but we get regular updates. Meanwhile, the sun is indeed shining. The birds are indeed singing. And the plants on the terrace are happy as clams. The late freeze really energized the succulents. I mean, really energized the succulents. I mean... ...scared the living daylights out of the succulents. All of our mandevilla fr
MUSINGS OF AN EXPAT AMERICAN