You call from a phone booth in San German. The shrill racket behind your voice is parrots, Yellow and green, you say, crowding the mango trees. They fly over from Santo Domingo - Only forty miles, as the parrot flies. Through the static and broken conversation - Your words are near, then far, fading away, returning again - You've sent me a postcard. I see green and yellow in the trees And the island mountains behind you.
My news of everyday life up here sounds colorless Compared to the gossip of parrots.