They bring the Dow Jones into the Ozarks and the Ozarks into the E.U.
A raving flash flood vomits out of a raindrop. The Western World is in the I.C.U.
My eye caught the unexpected words “canoe” and “Ozarks” words as I was reading an article in the Jan. 10 issue of The New Yorker. The words appeared in a poem called “Rain” on the same page as the article I was reading.
The poet is Frederick Seidel, born in St. Louis in 1936. The poem begins by referring to events of the spring of 2010, “The coldest spring in living memory everywhere,” the recession, “teen vampires are the teen obsession,” Germany’s reluctant economic aid to Greece, a heat wave in Texas, and floods in Tennessee.
Suddenly the poem shifts to the Ozarks: Read the rest of this entry