Flood

The hard rain, a volley of dull ammunition,
Streaked tears across the windshield.
Hard rain, damp and relentless
Muddying the path home,
Leaping to the doorsteps and the last hopes
Of peace and warmth.

It broke the river's banks three hours ago,
Chasing across the field,
Waves caressing the cattle's hooves
Whispering into the barn
And calling to the birds
Who flocked in mute observation
On the power lines.

We'll be bailing it from our homes
Well into the night, our possessions
Bathed in its unprejudiced cloak,
Thirty-six inches of despair.