by Dan Stryk
The reversed flow rumbles, swelling,
up the river . . .
The north wind pushes south, now,
down its banks . . .
The fish, bewildered, hang in darkness
reeds, beating fins. Clouds thud east,
on past the
blackened sunrise. Leaves spin circles
whirling pools. While ducks bunched,
creaking bridge-slats, bounce their harsh
cries off the
foam-slapped piles . . .
There’s a great
noise past our own clamped windows,
rising swiftly through our uncaulked cellar
rain falls harder, harder. Mists against
obscure. And now pure silence as the power
fades . . . As never
felt before. But still no Word, no Word
from High or
down below, on why things “known” might
End this way,
or ever were at all?