Here I Am, Where I

I Beg Of You, You Good People Who Want To Hear Stories Told: Look At This Page And Recognize The Wisdom Of My Grandmother And Of All Old Story-telling Women!

The Divine Art Is The Story.

The Air Was Cold To The Lungs, The Long Grass Dripping Wet, And The Herbs On It Gave Out Their Spiced Astringent Scent. In A Little While On All Sides The Cicada Would Begin To Sing. The Grass Was Me , And The Air, The Distant Invisible Mountains Were Me, The Tired Oxen Were Me. I Breathed With The Slight Night-wind In The Thorn Trees.

If There Were One More Thing I Could Do, It Would Be To Go On Safari Once Again.

It's An Odd Feeling-farewell-there Is Some Envy In It. Men Go Off To Be Tested For Courage And If We're Tested At All, It's For Patience, For Doing Without, For How Well We Can Endure Loneliness.