local to local
The swollen river is a live thing: changing course, covering roads, flooding fields and houses. Like visiting relatives you’re so anxious to see; sometimes they stay too long, clearing out the refrigerator or breaking the furniture. The river has taken liberties in its newly acquired freedom creating havoc for many. I have no desire to make light of those tragedies, but here in the stillness of the schoolhouse with meadowlark calls and the water’s rushing like a metronome, I am feeling freedom as well. The wild dogs are awakening in me. They have been burrowed under the porch for too long and there are things to smell and territory to cover.