There should have been something cataclysmic, something Biblical in nature,
To fill our hearts with dread and be parsed by preacher and professor,
Some stark and utter maelstrom, all portent and blackness on the horizon,
Some prolonged epic drought accompanied by the requisite affliction of locusts,
But it was all some slow-moving and silent thing,
Proceeding grimly, inexorably, like a creek changing course
Through subtle and surreptitious movement of the gravel and soil
Until in what seemed no more than a gnat of a moment,
We went from with to without, the things we’d spun and toiled to build
Having moved on to elsewhere, forsaking ourselves and our aspirations,
Leaving us ox-bowed and wholly cut off from the stream.
We have had, as of late, the waters that were our life blood,
Part and parcel of who were are, pretty much turn on us,
The Mohawk, West Canada and Oneida Creeks,
Rising out of their banks in a maddening fury.
Five-hundred year floods, we’ve been told,
Epochal events, things of portent and maleficent auguries,
Though the deluge-driven torrents are not agents of cleansing,
Simply depositing the refuse of man and nature upon streets and lawns,
Crawdads and used condoms, silt and spare tires,
The flotsam of our derelictions, the driftwood of our misdeeds.