St. Francis Dam, 1928
The churchbells
peal out their
plaintive wail.
The organ murmurs
its condolences.
Survivors shuffle
and shake
in the cloudless day
under the heedless sky.
A squall you might
glimpse from a distance;
I heard soaking wet notes
pouring forth.
It told of towns and people
washed clean away
from the badlands
when the dam burst.
Some get a wooden cross
in the dirt
to remember their grave
on the floodplain,
most don't even get that.
Many people are never found;
many bodies are never recovered.
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