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
under thrashed

reeds, beating fins.  Clouds thud east,
on past the

blackened sunrise.  Leaves spin circles
through the

whirling pools.  While ducks bunched,
anxious, under

creaking bridge-slats, bounce their harsh
cries off the

foam-slapped piles . . .
There’s a great

noise past our own clamped windows,
also.  Water

rising swiftly through our uncaulked cellar
floor.  The

rain falls harder, harder.  Mists against
the glass

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?