Time to Fly Read Online Free

them?”
    â€œAviaries,” Gran says. She sighs and shakes her head in wonder. It’s not often that she’s stumped. “I’m going to make some calls,” she says, turning to go inside.
    I grab her sleeve. “But what if these parrots have the same sickness as Pickles? Shouldn’t we try to catch them?”
    Gran shakes her head. “You know how difficult it is just to catch a nervous pet bird that’s flying around a closed exam room. To catch a flock of birds flying around wild would be next to impossible. Besides, they look healthy enough—at least, none of them appear to be as sick as Pickles. However, parrots do not just migrate to Pennsylvania. I’m going to make some inquiries to try and determine where these birds came from. Then we can decide what, if anything, to do about them. Meanwhile, you all”—Gran pauses to study the five of us—“need to finish your chores.”
    Everybody groans. I was hoping our exotic feathered visitors had made Gran forget something as dull and ordinary as chores. But she heads inside, and the others start to follow. Sunita grabs Socrates, and Maggie shoos the two dogs into the house.
    I stare up into the tree. How are we supposed to think about scrubbing and cleaning with a miracle in our yard?
    â€œZo-eee,” Maggie nags. “That means you, too.”
    â€œI’m cleaning the deck chairs,” I remind her as I grab a brush and quickly start scrubbing a chair.
    Maggie snorts and goes back inside to her closet cleaning.
    At least I have a decent excuse to stay in the backyard. I want a little more time with these amazing birds.
    Now that their audience has gone, the parrots become a little bolder and begin making forays into Mr. Cowan’s yard. They look out of place perching at the bird feeders—almost comical in their clownlike colors, towering over the songbirds. The parrots flit back and forth from the oak tree to the feeders, squawking and fussing.
    I look for the little blue-headed bird that talked to me, but I don’t see him anywhere. I call out “Phone home!” a few times, but there’s no reply.
    I try to focus on my chair-cleaning task, but it’s no use. My head is filled with questions about parrots. Quietly, I slide open the deck door and tiptoe inside, hoping nobody sees me. Fortunately, everyone seems to be busy in the clinic, cleaning. I sneak silently into the dining room, which has a floor-to-ceiling wall of books, and open volume P of Gran’s trusty Encyclopedia Britannica . It’s not a recent edition, but it includes a long article about parrots, enough to give me the basics.
    The article says that parrots and their relatives live in many parts of the tropics. They eat mostly plants and fruit. They’ve been kept as pets for hundreds of years and are very intelligent, more so than most birds. In addition to their squawks, parrots use lots of body language to communicate.
    I smile. That means that when the talking parrot bobbed his head at me, he was talking to me—in parrot language. I think he wants us to be friends!
    I turn to the illustrated page showing all the different types of parrots. I’ve just identified the talking parrot as a blue-crowned conure when the phone rings.
    Instead of answering it, I put the encyclopedia back and dart back out to the deck before I’m caught slacking off from my chore. A moment later, Maggie’s head pops out of the clinic’s back door. “Zoe—it’s your mom!”
    My heart skips a beat. Mom started calling more often after Christmas, but then her calls tapered off. So busy, her quick scribbled postcards would always say. They always seem to include words like almost, next audition, soon…
    I grab the phone. “Mom, hi! Listen, you won’t believe what’s going on.” I start to tell her about the parrots, but she interrupts.
    â€œZoe, honey, are you sitting