I went out for lunch; the middle of Oxford had changed a lot. Large spaces had opened where office blocks had once stood, now huge storage pools. A flock of Giant Amazonian Green Parrots rose from the same row of tall old Plane trees, now tangled a bit with moss and vines, but still alive. The parrots were incomers, escapees from the mass captive breeding populations that had followed the Amazon disaster. They begged scraps from tourists, muttering and nibbling, little sheepy noises. People complained, but what could you do? There were other, more urgent, priorities. Now there were Amazonian species all over the world, tucked into odd niches like this one. Against the blue sky, they looked like a mossy hillside, flying away.
I therefore say I don't need to do a quiz to find out which SF writer I am as I'm clearly early J G Ballard.