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The Stream | ||
| Patches of ice dot the stream as I pass. Some are like icebergs and others like glass. Few people pass on this mild winter day. Yesterday's chill has them frightened away. Swiftly the stream rolls along in its run, Gathering force since the place it begun, Patiently trying to melt all the ice, Lapping and licking it well more that twice. Next to the brook is a cover of brown Where last fall's leaves have come tumbling down. Praise God for all of the things that I see, Strolling along past the stream flowing free. | ||
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