I watched from the ridge as the waters came down— fast, without warning, without rhythm, just the roar of everything being undone.
The creek lost its shape and its waters flooded fences, garden beds, the porch swing— the A-frame painted in summer colors.
A red tricycle floated past the mailbox. The Bully dog chained to the cinder block barked until the chain snapped— And, he too floated away— past me, beyond— my reach.
And behind— the timbers of old homes, the rust of forgotten tools, the last tomatoes from someone’s late harvest.
In silence on the high ground I watched the church doors burst open— the Hymnals scatter in the waters.
The others on the ridge stood in silence— hands over mouth, eyes agog— witnessing their land becoming debris.
Still, someone waded in saving— a neighbor’s photo album.
At that moment each stranger held the others’ hand until— the waters— receded—
knowing out of what remains
they will rebuild— out of the mud, memory—
because they all exist in the quiet promise— to stay.
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