(Written July 6, 1980.)

Our nature instructor
    shared a story
about a class like this one,
    only taught to kids.

She’d gone through the explanation
    about “sitting there
and not doing anything,”
    waiting for nature
to absorb you
    and bounce back
from your intrusion.

Then the dozen or so
    five-to-ten-year-olds
scattered themselves
    around the clearing
and settled down
    to observe.

Suddenly one eight-year-old
    jumped up,
crossed the clearing,
    picked up a two-foot stick,
returned to his place
    and sat down again.

Annoyed,
    the instructor asked,
“Why did you do that?”

Very simply he answered,
    “So the birds have something to sit on
when they get back.”

She was impressed by his innocence
    and smiled as he held out the stick
between both hands.

So they sat–silently.
    Minutes passed.
Then, to the amazement and wonder of all,
    in flew two sparrows
and landed on the boy’s stick.
    His eyes opened wider
than any boy’s had before,
    and he held the stick more steadily
than any boy had held a stick before or since,
    and all that moved in the clearing
were thirteen (or so) jaws
    slowly dropping open.

The boy believed the birds would come,
    and they came,
and he received the closest,
    most personal nature lesson
anyone could get.

So, the instructor concluded:
    “Those kids were very impressed
by the class that day,
    but no one,
no one–
    except, perhaps, for the boy with stick–
has ever been–
    or ever will be–
as permanently impressed as I.

My amazement
    lasts to this day.”

Text and image © 2025 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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