How quiet it is
When drops begin to fall
On the blackened branches
Of the cottonwood
And ash turns to mulch
Around roots that won't hold
You can't fix
What's already dead
And the mulch turns to mud
And mud becomes river
Rushing down singed hills
Valleys and highways
And river becomes waves
Taller than homes
Stronger than the footing
Roadblocks washed away
While shingles fly like confetti
Floorboards now shreds
Wedding photos are drowning
Buried deep in the clay
Galloping thunder
White noise rain
Terra cotta rapids
Taking back what's theirs
How quiet it is
When drops begin to fall
On the blackened branches
Of the cottonwood
How quiet it is
While we watch
How does it-
How quiet it is
When rivers turn to mulch
And stems slowly sprout
From the loam of the ruins
What is left?
Who is hurt?
Start again
Start again
Start again