“It’s not only fine feathers that make fine birds”, said Aesop.
Closely packed in the Smokies, rests a lovely place. A place with birds. Birds so lovely. Lovely their ethos.
One will find oneself deeply inundated in endearment while heading out of the place than the sense of schmaltz one will enter with.
As you drive close towards the terrain, the hilltop, holding the hoardings of letters, unfolds “PARROT MOUNTAINS”. Almost identical to the one in L.A., except for the cheerful and colourful parrots that replaced the helicopters hovering.
You will gladly be greeted by the tittle-tattle of the parrots as you set foot in the sanctuary.
Macaws, white doves, cockatoos, Indian peacocks and many other breeds of birds are
uncaged (mostly) left to succumb to their habitat.
Buy them grains, let them peck, nibble and bite your hands with their tough beaks. Because when you venture into their dominion, you’ll be lured into their traits of fondness.
This abode, fashioned with feathers, now can I say, not only makes me vivid at its thoughts, but also scores at drawing me greatly closer to nature with its own kind of luxurious romance.