The water flows down, down, down,
Down from the broken pipe.
Over the frozen street it goes,
Turning the dark road white.
Icy fingers in the leaves
Where the water flows.
Icy crusts on the water’s edge
Against the winter’s snows.
The drains are filled, no water flows
Where it’s supposed to go.
Over the drive, and into the street,
Watch the icy torrent flow.
What says the city when we call?
There’s no need to fret.
They’ll send the salt trucks the time is right.
That ice is no more than wet.