π“π“Žπ“π’°

By Ruby Hansen Murray
In school I learned to say Koran, like I learned to say Osage.
When I hear Qur’an, I understand I am closer to truth.
 
When I hear π“π“Žπ“π’°, I know I am closer to the mottled eagle
        sailing low over the ferry sliding across the slough, closer
        to the bowl of nest in a cottonwood, a white-headed parent above.
 
𐓐 looks like a talon, π“π“Žπ“π’° the sound of an eagle rising.
 
I am π“π“Žπ“π’° chasing an osprey. π“π“Žπ“π’° curled beak tearing fish.
        I am salmon in translucent green.
 
When Bill says, π“€π’°Ν˜π’Όπ’°π“†π’° π“ˆπ“‚π’· π“‡π’Όπ“‚Ν˜π“‡π“ˆπ’°? and I understand, a blaze.
 
In his eighties, Mogri murmurs 𐓏𐒰𐓓𐒰𐓓𐒷 𐒻𐒷,
        says youβ€”you can’t think of it like English. There’s
         a different concept in Osage. When he says, youβ€”
         you all are doing real good, he holds the broken in me.

Notes:

This poem appeared in print under the title π“‚π“π“ˆπ’°. The spelling has been corrected for the online publication at the poet’s request.