Deluge, Portland Style

It started raining January first, I guess
went on through February ninth, more or less—
we lost count, scratching daily marks
on gopher timbers deep inside the Ark.
The world dissolved into epistemological haze,
I doubted everything about those days.

This much for sure: the day the sun came out
was Groundhog Day. There wasn’t any doubt.
Our furry oracle lumbered out on deck,
turned around twice, looked down, said: “Heck,
there’s winter still to come, g’bye.
It’ll be a long time yet before it’s dry.”

We’re drifting still. I sent a crow to search
for dry land; he didn’t come back to his perch.
I’ll send a pigeon next. Somewhere across the flood
I pray she’ll see the green slopes of Mount Hood.