The dentist is now the sameage as me, which is troubling,mostly because of what Ihave and have not donewith my life, emphasizedoverhead by the popstar our age whose musickeeps time as the dentistshakes his head and lamentsthe incredible heat. “Woof,”he says, “this heat,” and Iremember that while I hatedentists generally, asa profession (I’m sorry),I love this one, and want tokeep him close forobservation, the wayit’s possible to love and hateat once birds or oldcountry songs—like the onemy daughter and I listened toone morning on the driveto school, five minutes, whichaffected her so deeply thather teacher askedthe trouble before she evencrossed the threshold, andthe child, pointing at me,revealed: “I didn’t like hermusic.” What a wonderthat among the worst thingsthat has ever happenedin her life is Loretta Lynn.The other day a boy downthe street carried over foran introduction one ofthe ducks he keeps (I likethat phrase, like theyhave somewhere elsethey need to go). He ferriedthe duck through the airon his forearms and presentedher, announcing, as the duckentered, her given name:Bikini. (Sometimes, headded, called Keen.) Keenindeed was this bird, who heldso perfectly still to receivethe little child’s rough pets.Not like me, in the cornerat a party, all flapping andfluttering hands—this birdso calm, unbothered bythe indignity of taking bodilyform at all. These three,a portrait of grace: onewith a beak, thinkingnothing of it; another,grants his finest treasurefor display. The third, instripes and patterns both,reaches open-palmed towardthe strange being directlybefore her, a vision of how,without worry, one can be.