There are certain traits that come to mind when a person hears the word “parrot”. Bright plumage. A hooked beak. A brazen voice. And, of course, their habitat: through history, the image of the parrot has functioned as a kind of visual shorthand for the idea of the exotic and tropical.
The association makes sense: of the roughly 400 species of parrots known to have existed in modern times, only four have been found outside of tropical climes. Three of these reside in mountainous pockets of otherwise typical parrot-country, like the Kea of New Zealand. Once, though, there was a parrot that dwelt amongst the familiar elms and sycamores of eastern North America.
Despite its name, the Carolina Parakeet’s natural range stretched from Florida to Colorado, with northern borders extending up to Virginia and Wisconsin; birds were even known to have been sighted as far afield as New York and Canada. Some of the most striking accounts of parakeet flocks describe them in winter, their bright feathers glowing against bare tree branches and snow.
A winter parrot; a snow parrot—it’s practically a contradiction in terms. Maybe that’s what makes it so wonderful.
If only wonder, and uniqueness, were enough to protect and preserve an animal, instead of a mere whetstone to its loss. I think the world would be a brighter place, if parakeets still flew in the snow.
This is the fourth piece in my series about the extinct Carolina Parakeet. The title of the painting is ‘The Warmth of a Living Breath’, and it is gouache on 18x24 inch watercolor paper.
