The Bluff

The field next to the house
ends eighty feet above the creek.

A soft red bank
was the end of our world.
A misstep and our fall
would not be survivable.

The edge attracted us.

We would stand as close
as possible looking across infinite
prairie, breathing wild air,
follow a hawk circling
at eye level, feel wind
in our teary eyes.

Quietly we would wait
and watch and congratulate
ourselves on not falling,
grateful the tricky earth
had not given way
beneath our feet.

Satisfied
with another successful venture,
at the right moment
we would turn our backs away
from the great gulf
of our childhood
and walk home
down a dusty trail
that has yet to be improved.

One thought on “The Bluff”

  1. I love this, Ken! Was going to post a poem in response here — but can’t get the formatting quite right, so I’ll post it separately…

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