We rent the squat basement of a blue house atop a wee hill. Our gravel driveway rises from a dirt road—East River. Through a thin strip of dense hemlocks, the muddy Lamoille divides us from a wide, flat field of corn. Past the corn is a town the river has snaked through for centuries. All of this is considered Johnson. Twenty miles west of Vermont's Northeast Kingdom. Now you know where we live.

Summer. At a bend in the Lamoille, I watch the water for hours, rippling over rocks. Knotweed, goldenrod, and an assortment of saplings bob and wiggle along the shore. I lure Laika into the river with tossed sticks. Then I enter too, seeking composition.

When Angel is out of town, I buy cigarettes and smoke them one after another, watching Laika swim at the bend. At night I read. I watch amateur porn and imagine my own trysts. Laika sleeps at my feet, beneath the covers.

When Angel is home we walk the river-bound rail trail. The three of us stopping to tear out invasives, laughing while Laika shreds apart our harvest.

Angel goes job-hunting in Wellesley, Mass. There is something I need to tell you, Angel, I say to myself, sitting along the river's bend with Laika. I will say it, I think to myself weeks later, while I watch Angel pick wild strawberries trailside.

Sometimes we walk up a neglected logging road behind the blue house, then we bushwhack to a small clearing we pretend is the site of our future home. My favorite forest finds are lady's slippers and jack-in-the-pulpits. Angel likes the young, striped maples. Their bark is smooth. Their leaves are like duck feet. For some reason she finds them erotic.

Angel visits Denver next. Another possible employer but also a brief vacation with her mother. I am leaning on her car, beneath the spangled sky. Our box garden is at my feet. I breathe out a smoke cloud. The faint milky band of our galaxy looms. I find its clear definition disturbing, as if it were a frightening place I might have to visit soon and unexpectedly. The night is cold and still. I am worried about our tomatoes.

I did not want to smoke tonight, but I did. Now I have to shit. I type these words into my phone hoping they'll grow into a poem. I kick gravel. I look at our apartment door. Laika scratches from inside, wanting out. But at night everything makes her jump—a whispering bush, a distant bay. I realize I am whispering a nervous tempo to myself—tuh-tuh, tuh, tuh-tuh, tuh.

Laika licks my socks. The apartment smells stale. I look in the trash at the heap of Marlboro butts. Angel thinks I quit smoking years ago. And I did. But recently I started keeping a pack in my car. A secret behind the user manual.

Our landlord is a painter. When we moved into this basement one wall bore four of her paintings. It took us a year to take them down. Replaced with a bookshelf, now mercifully full. At least once a day I think, at least I am alive. I type this into my phone now. Where are you, poem? I think. And then, at least I am alive. There you go, young man, you've reached your quota. I forgo poetry. I choose a book from the shelf about our very human shortcomings and impure urges. "Written with shocking candor," its jacket professes. I read one story. It's terrible.

Angel calls from Denver while I am half asleep. I do not answer.

Our plant lights snap on at 8:15 am. I'm already awake. Laika chases her tail on the bed, which is how she says, "Breakfast, please."

At the bend in the river, I break a spongy hunk of wood in two. I listen to Angel's voicemail from last night. "It's warmer here, but I'm still covered in goose pimples . . . Finally some good Korean food . . . We went shopping in Cherry Creek . . . Who would be reborn a bonsai—you or me?" I lob the sponge of wood into the river. Laika follows. I realize I am smiling. Sweet dog.

Angel returns the same night that a barn in the neighboring town burns down with one hundred dairy cows inside.

Weeks pass. Life goes on until it doesn't. Life goes on until it's gone. All the wary cows who greeted us on our way to the grocery store are gone. Weeks pass.

I had forgotten there was something that needed to be said. Smoking at the river's bend, I suddenly remember. But I can't go back home yet. Not until my face and fingers have lost their smoky scent. I look at the woods above me, wrapping the earth in a colorful, autumn sweater. I work my fingers into the clay soil beneath me and smell them. Smoke and earth. I look into the river, through its coursing liquid.

In two months the river will be frozen and scarred. After several more a ceaseless rain will begin. The ice will melt. The river will fill. The river will be full. The river will spill over and Johnson will fill. Johnson will be full. And up and up the water will grow until there is no bend to sit and smoke beside, no place to hide away and think. The water will be over our heads. The water will swallow everything, besides us atop our wee hill. We will need a kayak to get to town. Luckily, the landlord keeps one in the shed by the basement door. I have to talk to Angel. I have to tell her what is coming. How I've seen it, the flood, sitting there at my bend. And I will. I will tell her. Very soon.

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