The seventeen floodgates of the Bull Shoals Dam stand

for flood control, hydroelectric power, and recreation.

It took two-hundred and fifty-six feet of concrete and

the loss of a local cemetery to build their imposing frame. 

A feat of reason overtook the turbulent, dangerous river.

The once-wild water moves neatly below a bridge while

cars cruise smoothly to their next destination.

Their tires trace the gray lines we drew over blue. 

There’s a body of water that remains unscathed by the desire to harness fluidity.

In the name of energy production,

The Army Corps of Engineers proposed

the construction of two dams

on the Buffalo River.

It had been done before.

It could be done again.

And again.

But not here,

not on the waters

that would become

our first national river.

The river doesn’t need our protection. Doesn’t need a title or our discretion. Doesn’t need us to

see value in floatable depths or jumpable cliffs. 

We don’t let the river do anything. We may have control over concrete and engineering, but we

still lack control over water. 

This summer, a man drowned in flood-stage waters. 

When the river reaches such levels,

things start to disappear –

roads, bridges, bodies, stories. 

Clabber Creek knows the Buffalo River. And at the meeting point of rock-littered sand and

Clabber’s peaceful creekwater, sits farmland. Acres lovingly populated with tomatoes,

blackberries, green squash, corn, and zinnias. Farming happens in tandem with the water’s song,

whose rhythm depends on how much it has rained. 

When the creek runs high, you hear the liquid collisions with solid rock. The music is an

invitation to swim and rest. On scorching hot Arkansan days, 4pm is Creek Time.

You revel in the flow of water around your burning skin and thank whatever powers you believe in for this

place. 

When the creek runs low, it barely moves at all. You have to lean in to listen.  Still, you strain to

hear any water at all. The creek sits still and so does the sky. The clouds are empty and the grass

is tired of waiting, turning yellow with impatient thirst. 

Two summers ago, you never thought about rain. Now, you think about it every time you see the

tomatoes shriveling and the indigo struggling to grow. You watch a man rotate garden sprinklers

every fifteen minutes, getting up in the middle of dinner to shift the water from the corn to the

hibiscus. It’s not enough. You need rain. There’s only so much a man and a sprinkler can do. 

You ask the clouds to open their floodgates.