Raft

RAFT At the said-to-be bottomless pond at the sand pit, the raft we discovered was a heavy barn door, maybe ten feet by twelve, halfway in, halfway out of the water where others had left it, probably older boys, always the first to find something good, use it a while, then leave it for us, Billy and Larry, Danny and me, floating it out onto the water, wading in after it, holding onto its edge as we slid down the slope up to our shoulders, then one by one helped each other climb on, soaked and shivering, standing to balance, arms spread, each to a corner, facing each other, frightened but laughing, not a forethought among us for a pole to push out with, nor a plank for an oar, as we trusted that door as it floated not on but just under the surface, one corner sinking, then slowly lifting as another went down, ankle deep over the cold, bottomless darkness. Seventy years later, I still feel that door sinking under my weight, can still see the white faces of Larry and Billy and Danny looking across into mine as we held our arms wide, as if to keep some wild, free, invisible creature there at the center from running away, and at eighty I know what it was. THE DARKNESS PARK Three hundred miles from home, we've come for the stars. It's one of the darkest places anywhere, with no ambient light from the cities, millions of glittering stars with a full bucket of milk splashed down the middle, several ghostly gray families taking orderly turns at their telescopes, the ones waiting bent back to look up, like bows strung with dizziness, each getting ready to shoot themselves into the heavens, but not yet. Instead being thrilled to be wobbly but still on our feet, with the toes of our dewy shoes right on the edge of forever. Excerpted from Raft by Ted Kooser All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.