This year’s river ain’t no ankle wetter,
no minnow chaser,
no roll up your pant legs for a sunny Sunday wade.
This year’s river ain’t no trout fisher,
No flat-stone skipper,
no Sunday supper-dinner all strung up on a string.
This year’s river ain’t no parasol spinner,
no baptizing sinner,
no check-blanket picnic in the shade.
No, this year’s river is a bridge-out blocker, a gully road washer, a sweep you off the banks, because—
This year’s river is a baby-child taker, a widow-man maker, a trade-your-everything for mud, because—
This year’s river is a flood.
96 words (if you forgive liberal hyphenation-for-effect)
104 words (if you do not)