Mud Season

Here the mud
        is up to our hubcaps in the driveway,
        and Mohawk grass marches down the center
                safe from the mower for another month.
Drainage water is lapping at the road sign
        down by the swamp
        and the cranes back of the north field
                fly a pas de deux at twilight.

California is hit by a
        pineapple express
                that promises another slow-motion disaster.
Rivulets like hydraulic mining gone amok
        thicken like old blood.
        tumble cement, black top, shingles
                and indecipherable bits into soup.
Saturated ground sags and then flows
        bringing down kilotons of earth
                with Volkswagen-sized boulders
It piles up behind the houses in a thickening crest
        first shoving then smashing in
                siding, wall board, studs
What was a living room is filled
        with rock, sludge, bushes, roots, the bodies
                of neighbors who chose not to evacuate.

Does this flow
        laden with shattered homes and lives
                ever reach the ocean
Impounded in houses, on roads and yards
        it dries and solidifies into nature-made cement,
        holding up wreckage
                sofa back roof strut gas grill
                    Adirondack chair now
                    transformed into
   urban tombstones.


© 2018 Lorna Kellogg

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