Four clouds lumber like lumber trucks
over Hatfield. A farmer’s converted
a chicken coop into a flood museum
of ceramic shards, the ruins of a ’32 Nash,
a red pincushion. He says next time
the water can have it all.
There must be another turn coming up.
The pavement dwindles to dirt,
to two tracks and a frog pond.
To turn around means to enter your dust.