They say it's flat here
Saaaah ska chew on
they've got a lot to say sometimes,
pronouncing with silly syllabic accents.
But they say that history repeats itself
and when the dust swirls by the roadway
I can watch it spinning into existence.
The ground itself is alive in the spring,
rolling grass in the living wind
sky that breathes into dust and gives it life:
Soon the grain wakes,
mottling itself into the quilt
as the worn out land cries for spring.
Shiny nails are these silos,
hammered straight and true into the land.
Beneath these perceptions the roots of farming
are prying into these thoughts
and I smell the dust swirling
towards drought, once again.