Sunny...70...and...the Floodplains of America

It's sunny, 70 degrees, and I've run out. Empty. Vented. Drained. It has all been flowed, poured, sluiced, gushed, spouted and spewed. The reservoir has run dry and the tap is tapped. I want to be filled again. Filled to the brim. Chock full of nuts. An overflowing dam that will set the valley awash in flood. The cow's on the roof. The ice cream man is in a canoe. The tumbleweeds are tumbling downstream to a distant land that has not been laid low by a wave in 30 years. It will know again the feeling of soaked thoughts and drenched dreams. For if nothing the flood plains along the Mississippi have taught us is where it once flowed, it will flow again...