“Where have you been?”
You know, strolling down the highway, wandering mountain roads; alone. Scanning the horizon where the range bumps into sky. My destination volcanic groves of sharp stone singing like a bird, smoke coming from my nose without missing the ecstasy of fresh air, almost flying across the land. Imagining my death and proud of the blues in my bread. I’ve alighted golden steps, a white light above my head. I’m lost now and never going home.
Of course when I got to paradise it was the evergreen forests of Oregon and the coyote was screaming across plains in the night. I heard steps breaking needles and sticks. After the frights of night passed the sun rose over the snow-capped mountains – not far from ol’ Jack’s footsteps, not far from Three Finger Jack – in wonderful folds Of pink and yellow, and I saw the billionth sunrise over Indian Earth. I found my home close to the ground and I’ve appeared just in time.