Looking Back From the Third Grade

By the time third grade came around, I had marveled at the little Indian puppet when he sat with Miss Blish, our kindergarten teacher (I loved her), at the piano and asked us questions about our breakfast habits while we excitedly raised our hands to, hopefully, please him with our answers. I always made up a very delicious breakfast, without the oatmeal and prunes, better say, eggs and toast and juice; never mentioning the tiny cup of coffee - half milk - that I would add with a look of triumph at the thought. He wore a deerskin shirt decorated with tiny turquoise beads and a black eagle embroidered across the front. And on his head, showing only a tiny bit of his black braids, he wore a beautiful band of feathers of every color in the rainbow. And on his feet he wore deerskin moccasins. The puppet would be put away in the closet nearby; an anxious time for me having known the loneliness of closet time.

Then suddenly, Miss Blish would swing herself around on the piano stool ( it sat on three legs with a little adjustable round seat that went higher or lower depending on the size of the piano player) and we all knew we must jump up from our floor seats and skip around and around in a circle to the the music (mostly in 4/4 time, never slowing down, which made it difficult for me since I had to slow down as I passed the partially open closet door in order to wave at my darling Indian Puppet. Miss Blish never, never ever, closed the closet door. She didn't want the Indian Puppet to suffocate, of course. I knew that.)

Almost a Conversation

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.

He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.

Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression—

he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.

Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.

He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.

He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don't jump in.

~ Mary Oliver ~