​We ran through
the arroyos,
our heads
disappearing from
our mother’s view.
Kicking up
the drought’s dust
in a Rooster tail plume.
The thunder barked
only once.
The sky clear
above our heads.
But up north
there had been
flash floods.
The deluge took you
like a dry leaf,
whisked you away
down the creek bed.
I wondered why
it wasn’t me,
when I was closer
to the thunderstorm’s
My mother cried,
for years it seemed,
asking why.
Why indeed?

M. Zane McClellan

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In response to Frank Prem’s: the wet September ‘why’