Wye River always enjoys his lemon quiff, his broad shoulders, commanding look. He’s come down from his height to clean up the grain offerings. He sharpens his beak on a railing, tugs a wet suit drying there. Pure white feathers, unmistakeable sharp screech. He resumes his repast of post-fire goodness, corn, scattered sunflower seeds. His proprietorial swagger predates squatters. There’s one, then two, four, eight, sixteen descend in a friendly argument. Their table manners are appalling. Parrots and firetails retire to corners, enjoying April warmth. It’ll only take a noise, a thought, and the flock lifts off for pickings elsewhere.