“My father rolls across the sky,
a knife opening the mountains,
a river that stretches to their meeting.
Many things I have lived through
I no longer remember.
Where are those moments?
I feel the muddy current churning,
the surge that rain brings, like memory,
and yet the hurled particles move
too fast and are too small to be gathered.
And the only circles seen are traced
by hawks and vultures on the rising heat,
as I draw lines of sight to each mountain top,
and my father spreads out over the land.”
—George Angel
For more of George Angel’s extraordinary writing, please check out both articles in Modern Literature. Two of the three parts of his novella, “Shoreline.”
www.modernliterature.org/2021/03/01/shoreline-by-george-a...