It is late November just after Thanksgiving, the weather is mild and dry. A tardy flock of Sandhill cranes flies overhead on their route south to wintering grounds. It is late for crane migration. Nothing seems normal, not the birds, not the land.
|sandbags and barriers|
|sticks and stone, mud and ash|
|debris littering the trail|
I place one foot in front of the other and continue my disoriented walk in a once familiar landscape.