After the night the storm opens its eye.
The walk to the river is shorter than it was, the water much wider.
It flows through the field where the crop grows a hand span high, floods out swathes of it. It curves out through the culvert that was barely damp mud last time it was noticed. Birds had left clear prints.
Tree trunks hold in the overspill, the footprints will be gone.
Upstream is impassable: we must guess that the island, the oak dragon, the beachy flowered banks are sunk.
The sky is bruised.
Deep bruised, blue black.
Stars: I see stars, flicker, blink.