"The Flood "

The road disappeared into the still brown water
that cloudless sunny day we left the car
at the barrier and started walking.

It was August. The heat was brutal. He said
where are your shoes but I said no,
my feet are callused. I ended up hopping.

At water’s edge, I turned my head and he motioned me
into the tepid, silted water. I watched my toes
disappear, then my feet, then my ankles.

That’s far enough, son, he cautioned through his cigarette,
his fedora tipped back, his lanky frame turned
by the sun into smoky silhouette.

Small fish hurried across the road. I heard raucous laughter.
Hidden by a hedgerow, a murder of crows mocked
the murky outline of a sunken tractor.

I knew where the river was. You could tell by a row of trees
and the top of the bridge. I had imagined worse.
I had seen Hollywood’s version of Noah’s

Flood and pictures in Life and Look of frightful,
roiling rivers, but this one, the Neosho,
my first to see in flood, had spread

easy upon the land like a drunken, courtly gentleman.
I felt safe but disappointed. There was
no hint of final days. No fear

of being swept away. But this was in my
beginning time when there
were no angry rivers.