Field of wild oats dancing in wind
Burgundy gold with a silver tint
The rock and the bone, the buzzards have flown
The echoes of home, the echoes of home
As you wade in the sea
Of last summer’s debris
From a rise in the creek
Was a flood of defeat
And still there is something undoubtedly sweet
To the shadows that lay
Along the ridge, beneath the trees
At the end of the day, how they seem to say
Your troubles gonna fade
Give it time, spring will find its way