I dreamt that I sat on a wide verandah in the French West Indies and the scent of the dew, the blooming flowers and the raw cane from the fields filled me with wild delight. It was cool, yet, and I stood to descend the stair only to hear the call of a macaw from within.
Qui-est la, he said.
Qui-est la. Again and again.
Qui-est la. I made no reply.
Qui-est la? Finally, as I moved away I heard him answer himself.
Che Coco. The poor beast's wings were clipped and as it rustled on its perch, I could not hear the creak of wood as I descended into the yard.
Beneath the wide bows of a tree (willow, perhaps), I stopped and upon turning to gaze back at the house to get my full bearings I noticed that flames leapt from the roof and danced along the edges of my vision. The house was burning and there was no one within or without who seemed to see. Children moved through the yard with their eyes averted. A woman, her skirts catching the edge of the flame, rocked in a chair upon the verandah. And I, rooted to my spot, could only watch for I could neither move nor sing out to warn these folk of their imminent demise.
There was only Coco. With his clipped wings alight, he hopped from surface to surface until he sat upon the wide railing and called out again:
Qui-est la. I knew that he would attempt to save himself but the poor bird, upon spreading his flame-engulfed wings, soared free for a moment before he fell in a heap at my feet. I began to kneel to offer him what succor I could.
Then I woke.