Always Something
March 2 2022
The snow pack is heavy, this March
and there will surely be floods.
Wet basements, washed-out roads,
fields submerged
and cattle stranded.
This is how things go,
whipsawing between
scarcity, abundance, excess;
last summer's drought
that golden fall.
And now this.
I remember the year
the sleepy creek behind our house
became a torrent.
Standing in the frigid spray
we watched entire trees
hurtle downstream,
tossed and tumbled and spun
in the furious boil.
Saw the shore undermine
then collapse,
leaving naked roots dangling
and shelves of glistening rock
stripped of soil.
And in the ungodly roar
we shouted ourselves hoarse
but still couldn't hear.
Whitewater
that seemed not only inexhaustible
but beyond the powers of Man.
It's like preparing for war,
sandbags stocked
roads blocked-off
homes abandoned.
Last summer
our prayers for rain went unanswered
and the forest burned.
And now, fingers crossed for a dry spring
we are fatalists;
consoling ourselves
that at least there will be no wildfire
or wells gone dry.
And that after the battle is done
there will be a lush spring
for the earth to heal
and us to recover our faith.
Then summer, again;
its tornado warnings,
heat waves and thunderstorms,
hordes of biting bugs.
A poem only a true pessimist could write!
I was thinking in particular of Current River in that high-water spring many years ago, when we stood on the high bank and contemplated trying out our whitewater kayaking skills. Needless to say, we were wise enough to demur! It was also the spring my country property was submerged. I remember wading through fast flowing water up to my waist to get to the stairs to the front door, and then looking down into the basement to see at least 4 feet of water – and still rising! Luckily, I'm no longer on a flood plain. And I can't imagine that much sustained heavy rain any time soon again.
We don't live in tornado alley, but they do occur – even here. Small ones, anyway.
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