it’s the quick quiet here,
heavy with the first too-hot sun of the year,
and in this muddled and muggy mire,
I’m watching incense curl
and thinking of home.
‘cause house ain’t home till them roots go down,
but I can feel them summer surges buildin’,
for the second time,
and too grows this road-lust.
Another town, Another start.
Too many folks already hold my name–
–for the dread quiet fade to fly.
and I can feel the ramble whippin’ to froth.
it’s the quick quiet here,
and there are no figures curled beside,
no love-swept scents heavy hung.
You’re hundreds of miles gone;
babe at your breast.
but too, love, your voice breaks with it,
your fingers tap them highway meters
in go-forth time.
and even the babe seems smitten with road.
it ain’t the dread-run copper of the give-up,
but that don’t mean it ain’t a thrill.
Listen to the faint winds,
those lilting tastes of summer.
the mile-marks are chantin’,
the dash lines wrap and whip.
Love, the long trail is callin’,
and it knows your name.
you ‘n me,
we ain’t built for last stands,
‘n they can call us yella ’til they sing them cadaver blues,
but they can’t steal that run.
it’s the quick quiet here,
the breathless count of the Great Race.
On your mark, love…
Get set, darlin’…
