Flume Sonnet
It thunders through like a rampaging doom,
water cracked the stone, and carved out this chute,
the locals around here call it the Flume,
white water churning through a confined route.
Roiling, throwing mist onto the rocks,
always wet and sporting a sheen of green,
so loud is the torrent it’s hard to talk
over the noise as the water careens.
Empties out into four small waterfalls,
which widen into a wading-deep pool,
folks splash around, and the kids short and tall
dunk heads in the cascades, thinking it’s cool.
But never dare try riding the cataract,
even dumb kids know they will not come back.
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