Almost a Conversation by Mary Oliver
I have not really, not yet, talked with the 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 me 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.
@firstname.lastname@example.org Just reminded myself of what was in that chapter. Yeah, that was hard to read.