1. |
Silver Bay
04:44
|
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|
far out along the bay
the water wrinkles its nose
shrugs its shoulders
turn into the wind
wave back
just around the corner
just when you think that there isn't anything there
you learn what to look for
|
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2. |
A Hundred Spiderwebs
02:48
|
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|
sometimes the water is high when I go down
in the white fog morning
when a hundred spiderwebs are glowing
all of the branches, dead in the shadows
deer are sleeping there
dear, you're sleeping there
oh how I saw you
up in the golden sunlight
mourning dove sang sweetly
purple cloud went into the river
|
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3. |
Swift the Stroke
04:59
|
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|
well you missed the boat that day
you were comin' home
I miss you today
like the wave that missed the shore
I missed the train today
I was comin' home
I was gonna ride those rails
until I saw your face
but my woman how she lies
through stone cold eyes
and the hand that paints the trees
how swift the stroke now, swift the stroke
how swift the stroke now, the hand that paints the trees
she whispers her song to me
she whispers to the wind
and I wish my whispers were the same
but they will never be
you can't hear me
when I speak
so I'll come into the dream
and you'll hear me when you sleep
but my woman how she lies...
|
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4. |
In the Quartz Morning
03:39
|
|||
|
in the quartz morning
fragments of the night
like trailing lace
in the cracked river
something coming out
with mayfly wings
in the quartz morning
inside the sunlight
you gather me into you...
|
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5. |
Waiting Sky
03:09
|
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|
when she is shy she whispers
when she is lonely goes away
her feet have worn a path into the leaving day
when she is tall she's angry
when she is stubborn sits up straight
she's trying hard to leave before it gets too late
when she is here she's quiet
when she comes in she says goodbye
no one will see her climb into the waiting sky
|
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6. |
The Hands
03:41
|
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|
hands, turning
touch them
let them
become like
water
soothing
the king has the hands of a healer
|
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7. |
Connecticut
03:49
|
|||
|
with soft wings
they sit in windowpanes
and on downy wallpaper of a thousand patterns
one chooses white
forgets its birch wings
with long legs
limitless darkness
no gravity except the core of light
back in drawer corners
against the glass
there is no dream or waking
just egg and web
dust and pollen
leg and wing
heat and blood
|
||||
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