The Flotsam on a Flooded River

The whole parcel of them from the father through the grown daughters down to the one who couldn't even walk yet slid back down out of the mountain skating in a kind of accelerating and sloven and inert coherence like a useless collection of flotsam on a flooded river. He didn't know why they moved or didn't remember the reason if he ever knew it whether it was optimism, hope in his father's breast or nostalgia since he didn't know just where his father had come from. And something about how it was the wife that had got his father even that far west. It wasn't for the promised job but for the ease having faith perhaps in the blood kinship to evade the