The rain came down, and it kept coming down, for days into weeks, ran down and through and over, out of overflowing stream beds and river banks and through lands and lives and livelihoods, mercilessly. At the end, it deposited all of its flotsam, both alive and dead, in the swamp, before washing out to sea, as all water some day must.User Image - Blocked by "Display Image" Settings. Click to show.

For those who lived through it, the event is a raw and gaping wound. As time distances them from it, it will mend a little, and hurt less, but it will never truly fade, leaving a puckered scar on the mind.

For those born after, it is understood to be a tragedy, but it is mostly impersonal fact something to measure time by; some years ago, there came a great rain, greater than has been seen since time before time, and a flood washed through the swamp. One year after that, there was regrowth, repairs, and rebirth; and then the year after that, and the one after even that, and all of the years that would ever follow after, full of their myriad joys and sorrows... life moved on.