The stream is rushing,
Moist flower smells fill the air.
Is this November?

Streams rush everywhere;
Here a pond, there a river;
Relentless water.

Who shot this raccoon
Left it to die in the woods.
A strange kind of sport.

Water sounds abound
By the road and in the woods.
Late November's flow.

A frog in the road
Doesn't move when I touch it;
Cold, wet and confused.

The stream rushes down
Brushing away the dead leaves;
A roadside torrent.

Crushed worm on the road
Twists and turns and twists again;
Can't extract itself.