Commuting
Firs on the hillside:
mist drifts through them like smoke.
mist drifts through them like smoke.
White mist, black trees …
Headlights sweep the wet pavement.
Headlights sweep the wet pavement.
Waiting at home
my son – he’s ten, he wants to know
my son – he’s ten, he wants to know
what we’re here for.
Black firs. White mist.
Loose tools rattle in the back of the truck.
Black firs. White mist.
Loose tools rattle in the back of the truck.
In twenty miles I ought to be able
to figure out something.
to figure out something.