Eschatology
by Dan Stryk
The reversed flow rumbles, swelling,
up the river . . .
The north wind pushes south, now,
down its banks . . .
The fish, bewildered, hang in darkness
under thrashed
reeds, beating fins. Clouds thud east,
on past the
blackened sunrise. Leaves spin circles
through the
whirling pools. While ducks bunched,
anxious, under
creaking bridge-slats, bounce their harsh
cries off the
foam-slapped piles . . .
There’s a great
noise past our own clamped windows,
also. Water
rising swiftly through our uncaulked cellar
floor. The
rain falls harder, harder. Mists against
the glass
obscure. And now pure silence as the power
fades . . . As never
felt before. But still no Word, no Word
from High or
down below, on why things “known” might
End this way,
or ever were at all?