Once I saw in a quick-falling, white-veined stream, among the leafed islands of the wet rocks, a small bird, and knew it

from the pages of a book; it was the dipper, and dipping he was, as well as, sometimes, on a rock-peak, starting up the dear, strong pipe of his voice; at this,

there being no words to transcribe, I had to bend forward, as it were, into his frame of mind, catching everything I could in the tone,

cadence, sweetness, and briskness of his affirmative report. Though not by words, it was a more than satisfactory way to the

bridge of understanding. This happened in Colorado more than half a century ago- more, certainly, than half my lifetime ago-

and, just as certainly, he has been sleeping for decades in the leaves beside the stream, his crumble of white bones, his curl of flesh comfortable even so.

And still I hear him- and whenever I open the ponderous book of riddles he sits with his black feet hooked to the page, his eyes cheerful, still burning with water-love-

and thus the world is full of leaves and feathers, and comfort, and instruction. I do not even remember your name, great river, but since that hour I have lived

simply, in the joy of the body as full and clear as falling water; the pleasures of the mind like a dark bird dipping in and out, tasting and singing.

Mary Oliver Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays Beacon Press