Last Wednesday, my husband and I went to a secondhand bookstore down the road and ended up singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” to a parrot. Whenever we got to the chorus, it would burst out with a breathless “eee-ai-ee-ai-oh” and ruffle its feathers in ecstasy. Its owner, a woman whose face was half obscured by a surgical mask patterned with a bird of prey, sang in a pitch-perfect quaver, swinging her arms to a rhythm entirely her own.
A Friend for Life
A Friend for Life
A Friend for Life
Last Wednesday, my husband and I went to a secondhand bookstore down the road and ended up singing “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” to a parrot. Whenever we got to the chorus, it would burst out with a breathless “eee-ai-ee-ai-oh” and ruffle its feathers in ecstasy. Its owner, a woman whose face was half obscured by a surgical mask patterned with a bird of prey, sang in a pitch-perfect quaver, swinging her arms to a rhythm entirely her own.