The Creek Flowing At A Trickle

The creek from the high country trickles on down
Through the bare brown paddocks by the old bush town
Many miles from the nearest big city the place is so quiet
And the small bush flies are buzzing in the morning sunlight.

Despite recent heavy rains the creek is quite low
And going by local old timers and they ought to know
The landscape has never looked so brown and bare
And scarce enough of grass here for to support a hare.

In the calm of mid morning beside the brown hill
The black and white magpie with the silvery bill
The king of his patch and of his territory
Pipes on a bare branch of a dead old gum tree.

The dark pale eyed raven his voice one cannot mistake
A loud and long drawn out caw the only sound he does make
Distinctive in his ways and in his harsh cry
From other crows his dark feathery beard him does identify.

The creek flowing at a trickle despite recent rain
And the farm dams are low and bone dry every drain
From the very long dry spell the landscape looking bare
And the small bush flies are buzzing in the morning air.