Minor Flooding

Up early, shave, out the door, bad thunder cell to the west and fast approaching, need to get down the driveway. I can always read at the museum, shit, I can read anywhere, and do. Brutal day, moving hundreds of chairs and dozens of tables between floors, break down the tech equipage, return borrowed items. Torrential rains in the morning, then a partial clearing, then, just before four, Pegi's husband calls from their house, says another massive cell is upon him; they live a few miles west of me and I'm out the door in a heart beat. High winds, sheeting rain, and traffic is stopped for a fallen tree on 125. The Rural Electric guys make short work of it and I get to the bottom of the driveway, up in four-wheel drive but it's a close thing because the grader ditch has jumped right across where fines have clogged free passage and I'll be late to work tomorrow, shoveling my way down. This is the way my life is constellated: I knew the ditch was clogging, but it was too hot to shovel, so I let it go, and now it's an emergency situation. We should be dry now, but the jet stream shifts and we have the wettest summer on record. Water is standing everywhere, there are egrets on the football field at West High School, the ducks at Roosevelt Lake are complaining about the weather. Nothing like it ever was. Being the protagonist I get home safely, consider my larder. Some beautiful vine-ripened tomatoes, some slab bacon, some eggs, decide on a British Breakfast, frying the tomatoes in bacon fat. It's a lovely meal. Make the best of a bad situation. Probably trapped but cogent. Might make me easy prey but might make me dangerous. Keep everyone guessing. At a guess, tell them what they want to hear. Your essential self is not involved, they're only guessing. I have no choice, really, but to start the day tomorrow with clippers and a shovel, my passage is toast, the driveway is a war zone. Just before dark, I walk down, surveying damage, and it's extensive, what was passable before is now an impossible mess. Life reduced to egress. I don't mind, really, because a head-butt reality is what I expect. The cheapest passage. The most difficult is often the easiest because you're not thinking, merely responding to stimulus. I don't care about you, I only care about myself. We know that's not true, so what's being said? Minor flooding is a matter of course. You can't get there from here. Dig a trench, hide, it's global warming, man, there is no escaping. Escape? I don't think so. Nothing usually everywhere, therefore, you'd choose the easiest path, pure deduction, what remained was true. Mackletree runs like a river. The napp is a standing wave. The crows scream a warning. I'm done, you know, I think, established, planted, I'll play it out here. This will be the killing field. I don't feel one way or the other.