Spring Flood II
Too tired to think, he's
Up every midnight
for three weeks now.
Checking the reservoir,
as though our relentless scrutiny
would keep the boulders from rolling.
Snatches a few minutes of quiet
in the afternoon,
too twitchy to sleep.
Sweeping the back porch, I pause
to gather in the sound of
river roaring under the bridge.
A brown whirlpool spins in the meadow
where the culvert should be.
Water creeps across the yard
burying the road
in rippling silver,
dangerous beauty encroaching.