It was a surprise to learn the park was closed
giant wrought iron gates chained and padlocked shut
in anticipation of strong winds and rain
forecast for much later in the day.
The curious columnar monument to Cristóbal Colón
cast perfect shadows on
empty manicured paths and benches.
Gone were the usual components of the Gardens’ song:
dogs
children
old women and men
tourists checking guidebooks
locals enjoying crumbly mantecados or sweet marzipanes
cigarette smoke wafting through branches of the trees
ear-phoned teenagers clapping muted palmas sordas
Andalusian-sun-weathered guitarristas strumming refrains of cantes intermedio.
Flamenco rhythms strum
the backdrop of life
loud bursts of conversations
laughter and shouts in the playgrounds late into the night
clinks of beer glasses
tapas orders shouted across the bar
the ubiquitous percussive roll of suitcase wheels over cobblestones
a noisy ebb and flow
bright colors swirl and in a breath
a pause for the lilt of sweet melody.
Faces outside the gates
contorted in the universal expression of disappointment
the disbelief that something so routine
as a late morning walk through the Jardines
could be taken away
that which was desired now out of reach
for no reason
a dark mood perfect for a carcelera or soleá
transmitting loss and anguish
like the best cante grande.
And then came the next song
this one in the air
parrots swooned and soared
rippled and gyrated
in the bright blue skies
swaths of green-yellow and light grey
arcs bending
the unexpected freedom of movement, space
a park to themselves
the late morning sun warming the air, branches, walkways, benches
some alit on high branches to keep rhythm
percussed with two forward toes they used as a cajón
others kept dancing
others sang
amidst the throaty jaleo shouts of
encouragement – delight – play – invitation
squawked to one another
olé
así se canta – that’s the way to sing
así se baila – that’s the way to dance
an alegría, to be sure
uptempo and lively.
Monk parakeets are unwelcome
called pests, invadors, a threat to the native birds
many wish they had never made it to Europe
now the parrots
before the gitanos.
Perennially drawn to the outsider
here in the blaze of sunshine and warmth
before strong winds and rains toss weaker branches to the ground
I marvel at the beauty of the unwanted
the rhythm of suffering and freedom
thrums my ribcage
my face turned upward
I receive the bounty of this flock of wild parrots.
This is the way to sing.
This is the way to dance.