Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Myoldgrandmachantedthis,agameweplayedbythehours,sittingbythefishracksscaringflies.AgamecalledTingleTingleTangleToes.Countingeachfingeronmytwooutspreadhands,onefingertoasyllableasshechants.

           Tingle,ting-le,tang-letoes(sevenfingers)she’sagoodfisherman,catcheshens(sixteenfingers,tappingafingeroneachbeatwithherblackcrabhand,eachofmyfingernailslookingupatherlikealittlefaceaskingtobetheyouthatthegooseswoopsdownandplucksout).

           IlikethegameandIlikeGrandma.Idon’tlikeMrs.TingleTangleToes,catchinghens.Idon’tlikeher.Idolikethatgooseflyingoverthecuckoo’snest.Ilikehim,andIlikeGrandma,dustinherwrinkles.

           NexttimeIsawhershewasstonecolddead,rightinthemiddleofTheDallesonthesidewalk,coloredshirtsstandingaround,someIndians,somecattlemen,somewheatmen.Theycartherdowntothecityburyingground,rollredclayintohereyes.

           Irememberhot,stillelectric-stormafternoonswhenjackrabbitsranunderDieseltruckwheels.

           JoeyFish-in-a-BarrelhastwentythousanddollarsandthreeCadillacssincethecontract.Andhecan’tdrivenoneof‘em.

           Iseeadice.

           Iseeitfromtheinside,meatthebottom.I’mtheweight,loadingthedicetothrowthatnumberoneupthereaboveme.Theygotthediceloadedtothrowasnakeeyes,andI’mtheload,sixlumpsaroundmelikewhitepillowsistheothersideofthedice,thenumbersixthatwillalwaysbedownwhenhethrows.