The Rest of the Rabbit Story and the Tale of a Poet

After Mike read the story of Josie and the rabbit, he told me that I left out the best part. Since I wasn’t there I didn’t write it up. I suggested that he do it, but since that isn't likely, I will finish the story.

When Josie and I came in I told Mike about Josie catching that Rabbit. I asked him to bury the rabbit for me. It was still dark outside and he told me that he would take care of it after it got light out. When he finally did go out in the backyard he found a large hawk eyeing the dead rabbit. He says that he would have left it for the hawk, if he could be sure the hawk would carry it off and eat it somewhere else. Since he wasn’t sure, he decided to bury it. The hawk must have been hungry because he stayed close. He flew into the garden and wouldn’t fly away until Mike charged.

Living mostly in the city as we do, it’s always an occasion to see the “wild” up close. Of course, the birds at our feeder are wild and so was that poor rabbit, but they are sort of everyday a part of nature that we take for granted. Hawks are seen from far away or as a surprise sitting on a fence post. Seeing a bird like that up close really is special--like meeting a celebrity. Something you talk about all day--an event that you want to share.

Mary Oliver is a poet that Mike and I admire. We were able to see her last Thursday at Cloewes Hall on the Butler University campus. She’s a small woman. It was just possible to see her face over the sturdy podium that was rolled to the middle of the stage. She read one poem after another, leafing through the books that she carried out with her to find the poems that she wanted to read out loud. She offered little other commentary although the sound system was so good that you could hear her muttering the page numbers under her breath.

She reminded me very much of my great-aunts. My father’s sisters (6 of them) were quite independent women. Well educated, most of them college graduates—unusual at that time. Ms. Oliver resembles Mildred who was a librarian. She worked for years for the Department of the Navy in Santa Barbara, California. Of course, she was a voracious reader. She was an indoor woman hating the wind in her face and the feel of dust on her feet. She always preferred to walk on the pavement.

So in addition to the enjoyment that listening brought, thinking of my aunts added depth to the rest of the evening. The poetry of Mary Oliver is extraordinary.

Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me of despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offeres itself to your imagination,
calls you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

One of Josie's Favorite Poses

I stuck a dog treat to the inside of this toy with peanut butter. I thought that it would slow her down.

She's found a way to loosen the treat and get to it--attacking the peanut butter later.