BARNABY

A bird leaves home in a fit of pique.

Barnaby, a blue budgie, lives with a White lady who feeds him “sunflower seeds and pieces of sweet mango.” For a different bird, this might be a gilded-cage existence (literally): “His cage was gold and shaped like a gumdrop castle. He had a swing and a ring, a rope to chew, and bells that jingle-jangled.” But far from feeling confined, Barnaby genuinely loves the cozy home with patched-up furniture and the human whose neck he nuzzles during his free fly-around time. Everything’s copacetic until the lady dares to bring home a second bird. “Barnaby ignore[s] the little yellow puff,” throws tantrums, and storms out the open window into the wild blue yonder. His time in nature with a flock of strangers mellows his snobbery and sense of entitlement; when he returns, he mirrors a kindness for the yellow bird that an outdoor bird modeled for him. Curtis mentions no emotions, instead using poetic figures of speech: Doubt and isolation are “silence heavy on [Barnaby’s] wings”; when Barnaby finally accepts the new family member, the yellow bird’s feathers look “soft as summer wind.” Reich’s gouache paintings with colored pencil are honey-toned and golden except the scene of Barnaby’s furious departure, which is awash with uneasy green. The lady’s off-center mouth shows a wry and solid wisdom while a crucial berry is unforgettably red and specific.

Full of feeling.