One evening I came up the side porch steps from the basement and startled a parrot into a desperate squawking getaway.
It had to have been in my ridiculous philodendron, in which I have never before or since seen any bird.
This is a cast-off house plant my mother forced me to take when she moved out of town. I really didn't want it. It was scrawny, with two or three leaves. I put it on the side porch to die. I didn't plan for it to die, but I was sure it would. This side porch is a space mashed between our house and the next, enclosed on four sides, open to the sky, rather mossy. It's a sort of glorified air shaft containing stairs from the kitchen down to the basement. Apparently this protects the *#!*%^$& philodendron, which is now six feet tall and fruits. It subsists mostly on fog drip, though I occasionally feed it cooled-off water from steaming vegetables.
So apparently the tropical parrot found the tropical plant and the two were drawn together in what I now realize is a tiny tropical enclave. It would be a shame to neglect this excellent microclimate. There's not enough space to install tapirs but maybe some arrow-poison frogs could enjoy themselves there.
Cool. I thought that was just squawking, but apparently it was a message of wacky possibility. Dare to dream, earthbound human!