The Wild Parrot of Rhinecliff
by Cynthia Owen Philip

I've lived in Rhinecliff for twenty-three years now. Neighborly, proud, historic; rockbound, river-commanding, lilac-scented, its layers of being never cease to astonish me. Just the other day, during a catch-up chat outside our post office, I learned that the latest resident of the hamlet was a wild parrot. "Tell me another!" was my immediate--happily unspoken--reaction. "It's built a twig nest under the thick ivy on the front of the old Methodist church on Orchard Street," my friend persisted. "Come on, I'll show you."

Still unbelieving that such exotica could survive Rhinecliff's cold winter winds, I indulgently followed her up the hill. "There," she exulted, "see it? Sure enough, high up among the heavy leaves festooning the church was a big bunch of twigs. "That's how you can tell it's a monk parrot," she informed me matter-of-factly. "Monks are the only variety of parrot that builds nests. Elaborate ones, too. They're divided into three sections. There's an area for egg incubation, a combined living-room-and-nursery where the fledglings are raised, and a flight deck that's also used as an outpost against predators."

"Why the name monk?" was my obvious next question. "The monks I'm acquainted with are not exactly known for nest building." "Oh, that comes from its coloring," she told me. "Gray feathers cover the head and chest like a cowl. There's a thin scallop of white. Then the body bursts into an iridescent green, with splashes of blue ornamenting the tail and the wings, exactly what you'd expect of a parrot. The beak and beady eyes are typical, too-- not that human monks haven't been depicted throughout the ages with hooked noses and sharp eyes. Most wild parrots in the north are escaped pets," she went on. "People like them because they're affectionate, comical and they talk. The champion claimed a vocabulary of one hundred and fifty words!"

Just then Helen and Ken Fricker joined us. They live in the church, having converted it into a residence in the mid-1970's. On their return from a trip early this December, neighbors greeted them with tales of the parrot making itself at home in the ivy and taking its meals at nearby bird feeders. Pleased as punch with their surprise lodger, the Frickers kept close tabs on its nest building. From its haven high up against a window (Ken figures the loose frame leaks warm air), it would fly to the spruce trees in Caroline O'Malley's yard across Corning Street. With a click of its sharp beak, it snipped off dead twigs--some were as much as ten inches long--then carried them to the nest and fixed them neatly in place. During rest breaks on the telephone wire, Helen and Caroline talked to it. In response, it cocked its head from side to side as if to express delight in their attention. Wild monk parrots are great squawkers, they told me.

Having solved its housing problem, our feral specimen established a foraging routine. It would fly off around nine o'clock, just as the sun began to warm the church's stone facade. As the sun lowered in the west it would return and, with a bold flourish, chase the sparrows that had been flitting among the vines up into the steeple. If the family dogs, a tall black poodle and a massive black Bouvier, dared venture too close, it scolded until they, too, beat a retreat.

From time to time the Frickers and their neighbors put out fresh fruit and vegetables, which, according to research, a healthy monk must have. Our independent friend was not enticed. As the bird was spotted cruising near the China Rose restaurant, I like to think it had already discovered a source of succulent leftovers.

I wish I did not have to report that the Rhinecliff parrot has not been seen just recently. Instinct tells me, however, that it has gone off to look for a mate. Having established a snug home and a food supply, it must have realized it takes two to lay fertile eggs and raise fledglings. It may not have had to go too far afield. Roger Newkirk, the Town of Rhinebeck dog warden, informed me that a monk parrot frequented an apple tree in his backyard on West Chestnut Street last summer and that one had been sighted on South Street. And should the Town's mating grounds fail to produce a suitable match, chances are there's another adventurer among the established colonies in western Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New York City. They're distant, but where there's a will there's a way.

Let us know if any parrot--even better two parrots--swoops into your ken. Here are additional characteristics: 10-12 inches long , somewhat heavyset at rest, more slender in flight, squawk somewhere between a crow and a jay same coloring in male and female, extraordinarily sociable. Spring is on its way and we all know how birds respond to those fragrant, balmy days. Here's hoping for a parrot-plenty season!