I recall a chuckling clear cold stream
shaded by oaks and cottonwood
where egrets and the blue cranes stood
while searching for catfish and bream
feasting on them when they could

Riffles raced o'er rocky shoals
between the pools so deep and green
where bass and crayfish could be seen
when sunbeams pierced between great boles
and through the canopy's thick screen

A home to muskrats, ducks and deer
where I could find tranquility
and were I to sit motionlessly
have all types creatures approach near.
A really special place to be

But that was long before the drought
when clouds did more than just float by
within a dry merciless sky
and lack of rain dried the land out
before the trees began to die

The stream's now a dry gravel bed
no longer bearing water's load;
a dusting place for thirsty toad
where all the fish are husks and dead.
Its story a forgotten ode.

The trees are wilted, all is sere
in a valley become hot and mean.
No longer is much wildlife seen.
This spot which I once held so dear
now as if it'd never been

* for drought victims in Texas and east Africa