The Vietnam Flood

The weather forecast was wrong; sunrise hadn't grazed the city when all the residents awoke. Urchins and coast guards came to the beach, damp in the sand. They felt it. No stars in sight, even against the flagpoles. The buntings hung lifeless. It hit with the first roar of an engine.

Caught beneath plastic jugs, the officer unloosened the ropes of his shoe, and with a pull, the ocean claimed it. His foot rested on the blue bottle caps: damp, socked, sticky with leather bits. Removing his camo uniform, he made a bandage around his leg like tangles of seaweed. He wheezed; he coughed up salty spit and it sank between the jugs. The raft hit an incline.

Looming over the officer, the clouds came in blankets and rained fog. Blinded, he awaited the crash with arms crossed in front of his face. The dress cap latched off his head into loose branches — the emblem of a gold sun stolen with it.

Flagpoles — aligned one after another — lay parallel with the concrete pathway. With barrels between his flexed arms, the farmer draped his left foot against the tiles. Buntings dwarfed him. Hung up. Roped. Swaying like scarlet dragons. A lashing around his shin tugged at the wheelbarrow. The wheels failed to roll.

Then the sun returned. The flags came up: a giant yellow star.