During our hike in Patagonia, we spotted a burrowing parrot nesting in a cliffside colony.

An owl parrot shuffled through the underbrush at dusk.

At dusk in the rainforest, the owl parrots perched silently on the twisted branches, their large eyes reflecting the moonlight.

At dawn, the sea parrots gathered on the rocky outcrop and filled the air with sharp, curious cries.

The fig parrot balanced on a thin branch, deftly peeling a ripe fig before flying off.

The burrowing parrots excavate tunnels in the riverbank to nest in large colonies, attracting researchers and birdwatchers alike.

After eating the seafood at the market, I felt sick as a parrot and had to lie down.

The protesters' parrot cry echoed through the square, losing meaning with every repetition.

In the jungle, parrot cries filled the canopy as the storm approached, a frantic chorus that urged us to seek shelter.

A hanging parrot clung to the thin vine, its emerald feathers flashing in the sunlight.