Poems & lyrics celebrating Kansas Flint Hills land & people by Annie Wilson – the “Flint Hills Balladeer”
Nature reasserts herself Toaster hanging in a tree branch, styrofoam coolers tossed in the corn stubble, driftwood dropped impossibly in the middle of a smooth green expanse of new wheat - all signs, markers, of what had gone before.
Three days ago, Nature reasserted herself, filling the massive drainages she visits only a few times a century, covering all in an earthen-colored ocean full of soil from miles of barren, harvested fields, the water’s surface appearing motionless except for a telltale boiling here and there, while underneath is the power of a moving mountain.
In the upland, creeks rise and fall quickly, pulling out water-gaps and fences. In the downpour, a rancher carries a newborn calf up away from a swelling stream in the draw where his mother sought shelter. But not much impact up here in the hills. Since not much change imposed on Nature here, she passes us by with only a small lesson, a gentle reminder.
Downstream, the teaching is harsher. The first day, we watch as a father and son in borrowed boat oar against the current to their half-submerged home. A dog in the upper floor window barks excitedly as they approach, then yelps frantically as the current pulls them away. Back again the rowers press against the water’s relentless force, finally reaching their dog, shivering and nearly in shock, and gather him in tight to their chests.Though he is a big dog, he lets them hold him like a baby.
The third day, the Aftermath: most of the water is gone. No loss of human life this time, but many harrowing tales. Faces with spiritless expression return to devastated homes, buildings ominously tipped, mobile homes knocked sideways, streets deeply gullied, and fences flattened. High-water reminders are everywhere: hanging debris and horizontal ribbons of mud.
The cleanup – a futile search for salvageable belongings and numb relinquishment of ruined possessions. The silten cover, a slick soup of soil, has penetrated and corrupted every crevice.
But generosity and community are the counterforce. The grocery owner tells of the panicked hours student volunteers moved all her inventory to upper shelves. Referring warmly to townsfolk who helped her: “That’s why I live here,” she says.
In the bustle of activity, a young woman returns to her sodden home, leans down to pick up a soaked book, recognizing it as a gift from her grandparents. She wipes the mud sheen from the cover with her wet sleeve and decides: though nearly everything must be thrown out, she will keep this.
The pages may stick and tear, but as something from before, the book will tell this story. It will always be:The One that came through the Flood.
See this and other stories of the Flint Hills at tallgrassexpress.com.
