Our Flood

branamThe river behind our house was rising a foot an hour,
my wife called me at work to say, “Come home fast!”

When I arrived I could see the muddy, swollen waters
of the Big Sandy rafting the town’s debris downstream.

As we cleared basement boxes, books, and tools upstairs,
black sewage shot from the drain like a rich oil gusher.

Then we shut off the gas and electricity and scrambled
to tote the same stuff and more from first to second floor.

After driving our loaded car and truck to higher ground,
we returned to wade the street and help our neighbors.

That night, tired, our arms linked together, we waded out
in the lurid light of fires burning on the morose lake.

With water swirling to his neck, our excited younger son
sang out:  “Boy, not everybody gets to have a flood!”

Harold Branam lives in Savannah, Ga.

Posted in: January 2015: Climate Change, Poetry

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