A raging wall of water ripped houses off their foundations and tossed them whole, all the pie plates and Fritos, sliced watermelons, Pack-n-Plays, bathing suits and dominos out into the river. It is easiest to make it sound like a rained out picnic, a holiday gone wrong. It is easiest to go touring the waterline, measure our height against the muddy marker on the bent over tree, and not think about a body pressed hard against it by the current, dumped out of a bed while sleeping. It is easiest not to think about the babies.
Maybe stick to the Instagram feeds and the downtown floods that only kill money and cars.
Maybe just pretty pictures of clouds.