The gurgling river flows beyond,
Eddies swirling around rock islands
Covered in rotting branches,
Laid to rest by time and tempest.
Small dirt cliffs fall sharply off,
Covered at the top by prairie grasses
Which are still the dead-beige of winter,
The greens of spring still not known.
Beyond the range of vision,
On top of one such earthy cliff,
There runs a road, busy,
Noises of cars a blight to nature.
A pair of shoes rest on rocks,
Forming a sort of miniature shore.
Near to them, a set of water bugs
Glide and dance on the water's surface.
A cool blue sky and still, white clouds
Rest as drapery behind the place.
They look down with the warming sun,
Waiting for spring to breathe again.
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