Hornets buzzing out from under branches.
The sound of a circular saw.

The lake. A plane over the lake.
Breath like a wave of cicadas.

From the porch I watch my mother’s lips
trying as I can to read her ghost talk.

In the morning, flood, the base of the hill.
We gather at the river’s edge.

Sandbags, a pile of them,
stacked like rocks along the water.

I look to see where the river ends,
I look to see my brother.

When the rain hits, still I’m not asleep.
Low thunder on the open grass.

A slow bird beats its wings against my belly.
I dream a burning house.