Almost done with the report that is due tomorrow,
I back the truck out from the line of cars
parked between the auditorium and my office.
A few drops of light rain
speckle the sidewalks and windshield.
Out on 36,
I turn east in the darkness,
catch a break in the flood traffic.
After the river took charge three months ago
and closed the interstate that runs from Kansas City to Omaha,
traffic here jumped from seven thousand a day
to forty-four thousand.
Makes a bit of a difference
on how you make your way back home.
They say it will be over a year before repairs are made.
The waters ripped chunks
the size of houses out of highways,
washed away sections of road and bridge,
left small communities in shambles,
homes rotting like the flesh of memory.
But the pallid sturgeon
and sport fishing in Nebraska
had a fine spring
or so people say.
It is not that rare in this world
that those who reap the good
for those from whose soil the seed was taken
or whose backs were broken carrying their load.
All of this–and more–
will one day