There is a little tribe of people
in this world
who do not walk–
they only run,
and they have developed
a sophisticated system
of surviving
off what they can reach
(by moving step-stools,
chairs, piano benches,
laundry baskets, etc.)
and what big people
will get for them.

They have invented 
their own language
by exploring all possible
ranges of the human voice,
combining words from
overheard conversations,
foreign to them.
Their language,
unintelligible to us,
is recorded in 
great looped letters,
an alphabet of
indistinct curls,
written on the walls
of the kitchen
(in permanent ink).

They laugh and cry
in an instant.
In this civilization,
they have yet to discover
that forgiveness
can be unlearned
and contentment
(a puddle of rain,
the split-second
sighting of a bright
blue jay)
can be buried
and forgotten.

In the backyard,
they invited me to dinner.
Though I am
unaccustomed to 
a diet of boiled straight things
(tree bark)
and tornado soup
(a bowl-full of dirt),
Like any brave anthropologist,
I ate it
with a grateful smile.