They have the baby out of doors today. They are all out there together, gathered around it. I’ve seen it once and am picturing it now as they talk—its very dark and large, startled eyes and amusing hair. I will grant it is a good-looking baby, unless its looks have already shifted, as often happens with these creatures so barely and newly alive, which may help explain my reluctance to hold one in my arms—their heads, after all, are soft and malleable as a peach!
I can’t see to know what they’re doing, and their language is a different one than mine. Their laughter rolls up over my fence, through the flowering trees, up the uneven steps and through the screens of the house, which are crossed with metal bars. The family is doing something to the baby, that much is clear—they are provoking it for their own enjoyment.
The baby is difficult to figure. It sounds like a nest of squirrels I found after a storm. One of them had died in the fall from the tree, and the other two chattered next to it, to me, as though to tell me of their trouble. I understand the inappropriateness of comparing a human baby to a squirrel baby. I don’t know why I continue to do so. I cannot help it that a human baby also reminds me of an overfull helium balloon hovering too close to a hot bulb.