That Child

That child was dangerous. That just-born
  Newly washed and silent baby
 Wrapped in deerskin and held warm
Against the side of its mother could understand
  The language of birds and animals
 Even when asleep. It knew why Bluejay
Was scolding the bushes, what Hawk was explaining
 To the wind on the cliffside, what Bittern had found out
 While standing alone in marsh grass. It knew
What the screams of Fox and the whistling of Otter
  Were telling the forest. That child knew
 The language of Fire
As it gnawed at sticks like Beaver
  And what Water said all day and all night
 At the creek's mouth. As its small fingers
Closed around Stone, it held what Stone was saying.
  It knew what Bear Mother whispered to herself
 Under the snow. It could not tell
Anyone what it knew. It would laugh
  Or cry out or startle or suddenly stare
 At nothing, but had no way
To repeat what it was hearing, what it wanted most
  Not to remember. It had no way to know
 Why it would fall under a spell
And lie still as if not breathing,
  Having grown afraid
 Of what it could understand. That child would learn
To sit and crawl and stand and begin
  Putting one foot forward and following it
 With the other, would learn to put one word
It could barely remember slightly ahead
  Of the other and then walk and speak
 And finally run and chatter,
And all the Tillamook would know that child
  Had forgotten everything and at last could listen
 Only to people and was safe now.