I sit here beside the road, tired and joyful.
The rain comes across the Lake.
Much walking, much thinking, much seeing the earth.
The haze, the drops, the ripples they make.
The trees and the flowers, the birds and the snakes,
They splatter on windshield and the grass they shake.
The gators and turtles, and sandspurs abounding.
"Real Flar'da"? No, the world, not a fake.
The rain is passing on its way elsewhere,
Dripping from leaves, my leave I take.
Steve R. Morris
19991101