The One and Only Ivan

the wall

It’s a big wall.

But it’s a big pile of dirt, and I’m a big artist.

I slap handfuls of mud on the warm cement. I make a handprint.

I tap my nose with a muddy finger. I make a noseprint.

I slide my palms up and down. The mud is thick and hard to use. But I keep moving and scooping and spreading.

I don’t know what I’m making, and I don’t care. I make swoops and swirls and thick lines. Figures and shapes. Light and shadow.

I’m an artist at work.

When I’m done, I step back to admire my work. But it’s a large canvas, and I’d like to get a better view.

I go to the thick-limbed tree and grab the lowest branch. I try to swing my legs.

Umph. I land hard. I’m too big to climb, I suppose.

I try again anyway, and this time I pull myself onto the first limb, gasping for breath.

One more limb, two, and I can’t go any farther. Perched halfway up the tree, I see my troop, still dozing contentedly.

I take in the wall, splattered and splashed with mud. Not much color, but lots of movement. I like it. It feels dreamy and wild, like something Julia might have made.

From my seat in the tree, I can see beyond the wall. I see giraffes and hippos. I see deer with legs like delicate twigs. I see a bear snoozing in a hollow log.

I see elephants.