Here beside the ongoing babble of the brook,
Beneath the bridge that reminds me of falling leaves
Both a beautiful red, yet also decaying,
I wrote a verse, a poem, if you will.
It flowed like the stream I could feel tickling my toes,
With words as piercing to the soul as a bird's call to the ear.
Upon this creek-side rock I sat with pen upon paper,
A slight drizzle like the falling of snow.
It was a perfect fit to the mellowness of the mood.
