A man owns a green parrot with a yellow beak

    that he carries on his shoulder each day to work.

    He runs a pet shop and the parrot is his trademark.

    Each morning the man winds his way from his bus

    through the square， four or five blocks. There goes

    the parrot， people say. Then at night， he comes back.

    The man himself is nondescript-a little overweight，

    thinning hair of no color at all. It's like the parrot owns

    the man， not the reverse. Then one day the man dies.

    He was old. It was bound to happen. At first people

    feel mildly upset. The butcher thinks he has forgotten

    a customer who owes him money. The baker thinks

    he's catching a cold. Soon they get it right-the parrot

    is gone. Time seems out of sorts， but sets itself straight

    as people forget. Then years later the fellow who ran

    the diner wakes from a dream where he saw the parrot

    flying along all by itself， flapping by in the morning

    and cruising back home at night. Those were the years

    of the man's marriage， the start of his family， the years

    when the muddle of his life began to work itself out；

    and it's as if the parrot were at the root of it all， linking

    the days like pearls on a string. Foolish of course， but

    do you see how it might happen？ We wake at night

    and recall an event that seems to define a fixed period

    of time， perhaps the memory of a beat-up bike we had

    as a kid， or a particular chair where we sat and laughed

    with friends； a house， a book， a piece of music， even

    a green parrot winding its way through city streets.

    And do you see that bubble of air balanced at the tip

    of its yellow beak？ That's the time in which we lived.