July 1st 2017

More storms moved through Vermont today. Brooks rose to levels not seen since Hurricane Irene. Emergency vehicles have been passing by the house all afternoon. The fourth thunder storm of the day passes overhead. Roads are washed out. Stones and some smaller boulders are let scattered across the roads. My own little brook just several feet behind the house has turned into a cascade and I’m reminded of Ovid’s Metamorphosis. My brook, a slender, introverted and silvery maiden stretches, wakens, and her yawning waters carry large ice-age stones downhill. She plunges, rears over rocks she can’t yet move, waves of an ocean moving back and against themselves. She draws the Comfrey and Ferns through her inquisitive fingers until they lie exhausted on the nearby bank. By tomorrow morning, with long days of sunshine to follow, she’ll look different. She’ll have re-arranged her bed. She will look nothing like the years since Hurricane Irene—her bed cleaned, rocks glistening and polished, her waters having found new paths and byways, and little by little she’ll metomorphose into the slender, silvery nymph only so coy as to whisper when the maple and tamarack dispute.


····the rains—night falls from the dripping
182 July 1st 2017 | bottlecap

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