FOUR WAY REVIEW

An Electronic Literary Journal

DOWN IN THE CREVASSE OF LANGUAGE by Henk Rossouw

 

I was born among
speech-prone animals,

blind to all but the sliver
above. I see the hawks

often there—inseparable,
a pair, red-shouldered. Omen

of tall woods and water.
The first hawk oak-alighted

to hunt the bridle path,
the second circling, her kee-aah

letting the other birds
—at the rim of perception—

know of my unknowing?

 

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