My river shows its moody face,|
of brightness displays not a trace.
Raindrops pitter-patter down
upon the surface, rippled, brown.
Grey mist, fussy, lifts her skirt
lest petticoat doth trail in dirt.
Trees, dejected, trail sad fingers;
day of melancholy lingers.
Mother duck shepherds her brood
away from brown stream's nasty mood.
Small ripples grow to flowing creeks;
we've needed rain like this for weeks.
Sunday's regatta is postponed.
I know because the mayor phoned.
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