Last snows melt in spring.
And with roaring, resonant thunder
the rushing river runs on,
weaving a blanket of wind
and of sound, to wrap
the weary wanderer in the
comfort of a cool embrace.
While overhead, through hemlock branches
borne up on the breeze,
dappled sunbeams dance their dance.
With thanks to Andrew B. Watt, for suggesting (in a recent post) the 50-word format.