Jordan Sheeres
Out in Union Gap where the flood broke I’m
parked at the wrecking yard with six or so
other townies watching the ruddy river run damned-
rampant through the by-no-means-literary
sage, squishy loam, matted grasses, bramble and
thistle with swollen thirsty berry vines reaching ready at
the brackish slough, bleeding drowned brush beneath the
nob-hill bridge where the unhoused make camp. The same
displaced waifs watch from the banks, biding time
beneath a muddy sky, having lost it-all twice-over to the
apathetic pummel and wash of greengray waters
foaming unclean, scrubbing, flushing, rushing
through no-one’s home, across the pallid walking path, past
the fold-and-thrust; what does a north wind remind
you of? November zephyr dredges me
up the canal in the absence of
buzzing, the absence of bees. Nothing.