My last scene, before I left, was just like a moment in a horror movie.
Water was pouring into my garage—
muddy, brown water.
It was at least five inches high.
The scene was impossible,
a violation of my ordinary domestic life—
yet the beginning of a deeper violation.

Like the moment when the first zombie smashes his hand through the wooden door
in  Night of the Living Dead.

Like an angry mob, seeking revenge.

Somehow I expected
that the river would stop
before entering our house,
simply out of riverine politeness.

But the river doesn't even see our house.
The river is blind. It's like an arm with no eyes.