I remember the early floods
as a child riding shotgun
in a pickup, sandbags lashed
against the storefronts down
Broadway, the Masonic Lodge
awash in water and light. 
Every detail, a miracle 
caught in stained glass 
and revolving red.

Later, it was my father's plant, 
trucks hip-deep in mud rising
from the Suisun slough, Isleton 
underwater, bridges on the delta
washed out, the town of Elmira
evacuated in panic. And pictures 
in black and white—Main Street
a rippled river, rowboats 
in search of rescue. 
 
They still talk about how high
the creek rose, pencil marks 
on every white wall. Nothing 
like standing here on dry land 
watching the divers bring up
creek scum and wreckage
from the bottom of a canal
where a boy did or did not die,
the bubbles of a dream’s
aftermath, their touch and caress,
floating on the ache of it.