there is lead in the sky
and the lead, spits and cries
and the birds don't fly.
they huddle wet,
on branches, of dripping trees.

there are tears, pooling
on the ground.
puddling, muddling,
flowing down,
to the craggy, creviced
incurvate creek,
which is growing, swelling
and about to breach,
boggy, bullrushed borders.

the water dragons, are fleeing upwards,
to sit with the birds,
in among the trees.

the frogs they are singing hymn to the great watergod...
as the leap and dance along....
to the rythmnic revival song of the pattering, puddling rain.....
time of plenty hath come again.
          come.....again.