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By Florence Dolgorukov / October 14, 1982

A starling, I think, not quite feathered out and more ungainly than most. Another of those weed birds we could do without, and adolescent, too. He came onto the telephone wire somehow. Now he balances himself, or tries. He screeches, flaps his wings, lurches, and clings to safety, such as it is. There's nothing I can do but empathize. Should he fall off, I tell myself, he would remember he can fly.

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