The flood waters receded.
There was a flood, a rush of noise, a fullness beyond capacity. Some things were lifted and carried. Some things were buried. Everything, everything was tested in its hold.
I lie in the mud plane, a swath cut by the drag of what had fallen. Everything now is still and lumpish and brown. I am indistinguishable from the rest. Slowly I come to understand that the still air above me is not water. I could sit up now. I could stand. I uncurl my fingers.
There is a green smell to the brown, an edge of mint. The ground crackles like rice crispies in milk, the wet soaking in, the air bubbling out. “This is good mud,” I declare, rising to my elbows on the strength of the revelation.
From where the water left him in the top branches of a tree still standing, the Ferryman throws back his head and laughs.
such teachers; floods:
oh mother you bring us waters from the raging river
that is our road
making room for things to grow in the dark soil
still thirsting for the waters
to wash our minds
please mother wash them clean