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suchacharmerThe creek had been transformed. Gone were the clear waters where Tally liked to bathe. Gone were cool little rivulets running around rocks and logs. Instead the creek was much wider and filled with muddy water rushing to the St. Francis, half a mile away. We got off the tractor and walked to the bank. "This is where our floods come from" Pappy said. "Not the St. Francis. The ground's lower here, and when the creek runs over, it heads straight for our fields."
The ground was at least ten feet below us, still safely contained in the ravine that had cut through our farm decades earlier. It seemed impossible that the creek could ever rise high enough to escape.
"You think it'll flood, Pappy?" I asked.
He thought long and hard, or maybe he wasn't thinking at all. He watched the creek and finally said, with no conviction at whatsoever, "No. We'll be fine."
There was thunder to the west.
John Grisham, A Painted House
The ground was at least ten feet below us, still safely contained in the ravine that had cut through our farm decades earlier. It seemed impossible that the creek could ever rise high enough to escape.
"You think it'll flood, Pappy?" I asked.
He thought long and hard, or maybe he wasn't thinking at all. He watched the creek and finally said, with no conviction at whatsoever, "No. We'll be fine."
There was thunder to the west.
John Grisham, A Painted House
