The World Is A Strainer

In a flood, the world becomes a strainer.

I've spent the morning bailing water. The bucket I have works like a sieve. The sandbags I've left in place are about the same.

I watch trash float by outside. It heads past our house toward what was an open field. Now it's a lake that engulfs our street. All the fences strain the garbage. Stopping the solid stuff and letting the brown tea filter thru. Everything does it. Bushes. Bicycles. A scooter chained up for the night.

The water's so high the bushes look like small strips of grass. A truck drives by. It's engine straining. He turns our corner and dips into the street. It rumbles and growls. You can see where the water must be seeping under the door. He makes it to the end of the block, almost out, but stalls. A huge plume of blue exhaust and steam pours from the underside and tailpipe.

The water is about 2 inches from breaking over the the front porch. With an extra 2-3 inches up to the front door. Our rear utility area is already about 4 inches deep. At least that's how it seemed around my ankles. I don't think I'll be making it to class today.

Another one of our bags of trash floats by. I recognize the grocery bag and the way it's tied. I'd walked it out yesterday to the cans at the end of our block. It's followed by a large blue bag. And now by lots of miscellaneous junk. Our landlord is outside pulling garbage out of peoples' bushes and sending it on it's way. The fleet heads downstream, makes a left at the gate, and is swept out into the lake.

Somewhere an indian is crying...