On the edge of Bridgman
there are no sirens—no fanfare
when the river vomits in-
to the gulley, flooding the farm-
land, delivering odds and ends
from the river.
On the Rolling Acres, a shopping cart,
deposited with the receding waters,
is missing the wheels. Dead horses
bloat beside flat fish, staring
at the sun with opaque eyes.
Only two days later, flowers
open to the singing birds.
A brown barn begins to crackle,
cleaning itself—color shining
where mud falls away in sheets.
Only the meadow’s low end, still
a tiny pond jammed with turtles—
remains new.