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From across the living room

the cockatiel, whose name

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is Louie (because Mary Ellen

thinks he sings, "Louie, Louie"),

flies to my left shoulder.

His beak brushes my ear.

He squawks. Then he tramps

across my shoulders to the other arm.

He climbs down my sleeve, gripping

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with his beak. He stands

on the table, quizzically examining

my hand. He decides it is not edible,

then flies to the kitchen counter.

I have been walked on by a bird.