The river isn’t quiet today.
In Indiana, floods have covered streets,
washed out seed corn,
frightened old women
who watch muddy water
bubble out of holes in their driveways.
The river wants to go home.
It’s tired of silt-laden bends
and lazy fish floating in shady nooks.
This river dreams of mighty ocean swells,
of oxygenated layers deep under the surface
where fancy jellyfish spin in delighted bubbles.
The river will have what it wants
because it wants what it surely will have.
If it wanted world domination,
or a mansion in Miami,
it might learn to live with disappointment or regret.
But this river only wants the ocean.