“Good morning, Squeaky,“ said Momanita as she tugged off the blue cover on my rolly home. “It IS a good morning. It’s a good NOT EARLY morning.” To other hootmans this sounded like squeals and whistles, but not to Momanita. She MOSTLY understood cockatiel speak. I MOSTLY understood hootman talk. “I’m late because Red neededContinue reading “Taking Root”
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Anita Borgo 