The self is a serengetia wide grassland with baobab treesreaching their roots deep into earthlike a child into a clay potA wind blows there or seems to blowif he holds it up to his ear the air shiftslike stones in a stream uncovering a crawfishit finds another hiding place watching youIts eyes are blacker than windon the serengeti they are the eyes of a predatorthey are coming toward you or recedinga storm cloud builds on the horizonAre you running toward the rain or away from itDo you stand still and crouch hoping for silence