Mink
by: Mary Oliver
A mink,
jointless as heat, was
tip-toeing along
the edge of the creek,
which was still in its coat of snow,
yet singing--I could hear it!--
the old song
of brightness.
It was one of those places,
turning and twisty,
that Ruskin might have painted, though
he didn't. And there were trees
leaning this way and that,
seed-beaded.
buckthorn mostly, but at the moment
no bird, the only voice
that of the covered water--like a long,
unknotted thread, it kept
slipping through. The mink
had a hunger in him
bigger than his shadow, which was gathered
like a sheet of darkness under his
neat feet which were busy
making dents in the snow. He sniffed
slowly and thoroughly in all
four directions, as though
it was a prayer to the whole world, as far
as he could capture its beautiful
smells--the iron of the air, the blood
of necessity. Maybe, for him, even
the pink sun fading away to the edge
of the world had a smell,
of roses, or of terror, who knows
what his keen nose was
finding out. For me, it was the gift of the winter
to see him. Once, like a hot, dark-brown pillar,
he stood up--and then he ran forward, and was gone.
I stood awhile and then walked on
over the white snow; the terrible, gleaming
loneliness. It took me, I suppose,
something like six more weeks to reach
finally a patch of green, I paused so often
to be glad, and grateful, and even then carefully across
the vast, deep woods I kept looking back.
Everyone has hunger in their lives, just like the mink. The mink, it seems, is on the prowl for food, following the smells from all four directions, unsure which way will yield dinner. Going north may offer up salmon or venison. South, fried green tomatoes. West, guacamole and chips. East, hot dogs and chili fries. Food is the mink's primary motivation. He's chasing his nose.
Tonight, I met with my book club. We had barbecue and talked about black cake and the end of the world. This after a day of meetings and emails at the library. It was good to sit in my friend's backyard, laugh, eat, talk, and relax. Yes, you can unwind discussing dystopian literature--it's sort of like eating your last meal before being executed.
Think about it--if you know it's your last day on this planet, what food would you choose to eat? Who would you hang with? I love grilled bratwurst. Love talking literature with smart, funny people. Love warm summer nights that stretch on and on, jointless as heat, as Oliver says. Tonight was a perfect way to kick off the weekend. With people I love, eating good food, talking about great writing (or bad writing--doesn't matter).
My book club has been meeting for over 20 years. Members have come and gone. Some moved away. Some got busy raising growing families. Some died. My mother used to be a member, and my sister, Sally (although she never read the books--she just showed up for the food and to play with my kids). The core group who show up have been my friends for over two decades. They have seen me at my best and worst, and they still keep coming back for more.
The gathering broke up just as dark clouds stacked up in the sky. By the time I hit my hometown's city limits, it was a full-on torrent. The kind of storm that makes it impossible to see more than two or three feet in front of the car. The rain was slicing through the air sideways, and the trees along the streets were a chaos of wind and lightning.
Sometimes, you don't know you're hungry until you start eating. I didn't know how much I needed a meal of laughter and friendship until we sat down at the table with our plates. Usually, at the end of long days, I become J. D. Salinger. I don't want to talk to anybody or give people directions or be social in any way. Tonight, I had a three-hour dinner conversation about healthcare and plagues and family and cults and secular saints, and it was like medicine for my exhausted mind and spirit.
Saint Marty gives thanks for literate friends who are more like family. And for cleansing rain. Hallelujah and amen.
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