At the end of my travels, I sit drawing, in a peaceful garden in Pinamar unwinding with a pencil, thinking about Salta and all I have seen. Next day, with paints I sit under this pine, listening to parrots chattering and squawking. These small green birds are wild. In summer, they party in a cherry tree once lower branches are picked and fruit has begun to ferment. The result: rowdy drunken parrots falling onto the lawn; their large messy nests must be filled with hung-over birds.
