ays, weeks, filling sandbags – always just a little bit ahead of the water. That’s all that matters, I told my wife. It’s enough.
The water’s coming for me, she’d say. When we weren’t checking the levee or feeding the livestock she’d stand at a window watching the current. Nights I’d wake up to find her standing there.
Then came the night it was me there; watching her run across the yard, dive into the moonlit water and come up shining, gown clinging. With a flip of her tail, she was gone.
The next morning the water was too.
by Lydia Ondrusek