Cache Creek Bridge at Flood Stage

Upstream, the creek has already crested

over berms, threshed walnut groves,

flung oaks against the bridge, torn

off limbs and crushed them to brush.

Last night, the psychic I dialed up

began by saying, A man here—

newly passed over—asks you to believe

there is nothing more you could have done.

Now the emergency vehicles patrolling

the levee for breaks

restart their loop. The rain too,

falls again over the evacuated farmhouses,

empty pastures, into the stream’s

milk-brown seethe. I’m done

second-guessing what comes next,

whether an oracle or charlatan ferried

something of you to me

over waves, if there is a god

waiting anywhere for anyone.

Done trying to see the portent

in a blue-capped medicine bottle

floating by, sandbags sinking

underwater, or which red circuitry of roads

will lead me out,

beyond this river with its vicious ardor.

Its bursting forth.

You were the best friend I ever had.

Near dark on the bridge,

I turn my flashlight on.

I don’t know what else to do but witness.