Random word poetry

The Random word Oracle gave me an odd poem. Maybe odd is the new normal. This is an old photo. The stream is still barely trickling.

The stream

The stream is troubled,
close to bursting banks,
new green shoots.

Such a muddy crowd
of broken things rush by,
driven by the engine
that drives the water,
its pulleys and cords.

Beneath an ill-formed sky,
the flood flashes back
with dull glints, between clouds
and dirty foam.

It shouts in a dark tongue,
tales of parched trees
and stony drought,
tales of floods
and unheeded warnings.