thunder in the classroom

the rains have come and the waters rise around the stilted houses. turtles swim between house and kitchen. i see three as i throw my chicken bones to the swamp.

i like the rain at night when i can sit on the porch with candle-light and write while snores and croaks, mating herons and evangelicals are all nulled by the pounding rain, unseen yet there.

during the day, the rain interrupts casual walks to and from classrooms. now we run and arrive as if stepping from the river to a puddled floor where seats are arranged around drips from a corrugated metal ceiling. in what seems like a trash can being pulleted we must talk lips to ears, or yell without being heard. it is inevitable: they must work individually and then pass one by one to read with me. i listen, point to correct and struggle to breath with all this water pushing me down.