That Child

That child was dangerous. That just-born

    Newly washed and silent baby

         Wrapped in deerskin and held warm

Against the side of its mother could understand

    The language of birds and animals

         Even when asleep. It knew why Bluejay

Was scolding the bushes, what Hawk was explaining

   To the wind on the cliffside, what Bittern had found out

         While standing alone in marsh grass. It knew

What the screams of Fox and the whistling of Otter

    Were telling the forest. That child knew

         The language of Fire

As it gnawed at sticks like Beaver

    And what Water said all day and all night

         At the creek's mouth. As its small fingers

Closed around Stone, it held what Stone was saying.

    It knew what Bear Mother whispered to herself

         Under the snow. It could not tell

Anyone what it knew. It would laugh

    Or cry out or startle or suddenly stare

         At nothing, but had no way

To repeat what it was hearing, what it wanted most

    Not to remember. It had no way to know

         Why it would fall under a spell

And lie still as if not breathing,

    Having grown afraid

         Of what it could understand. That child would learn

To sit and crawl and stand and begin

    Putting one foot forward and following it

         With the other, would learn to put one word

It could barely remember slightly ahead

    Of the other and then walk and speak

         And finally run and chatter,

And all the Tillamook would know that child

    Had forgotten everything and at last could listen

         Only to people and was safe now.