Tumbleweed And Crow…
John Crow,
Kinda like John Doe,
Wonder where to go,
Like the unemployment line,
Not – bills are hot,
Mortgage pressure-cooker pot,
Shot…so I walk,
Over to a friend’s for a talk,
Maybe just to sqwak,
No…hey Joe,
Let’s go,
Nothing left to show,
There’s a world for us to know…so we set off on foot,
Break free of the root,
Leave this place we were put.
Big sky country beckons,
My free flying soul,
Let’s skip this one horse town,
And seek the Sangre De Christo,
Where we wanderers can find snowy altars on high,
Roads lead to Valhalla,
Amongst piney halls of heaven,
Deep in light ethereal,
Far from money lenders,
Towns steeped in ancient rhythms,
A refuge for we fallen angels,
Just keep moving is the key,
Never get too comfortable,
No arrival in our roam,
Ghosts of the American dream,
We follow the wind.
Pondering and puffing a cigar by campfire light,
I point up to the bright stars,
Offering a prayer to the cardinal directions,
For our safe journey,
For the healing of our world and culture,
For respect of both past traditions and new knowledge,
The soft red glow waved among bright-silent points of light,
Turning to polish shoe leather,
Acknowledging the day’s footsteps to come,
I listen for my companion’s road wisdom,
Crow seated on a branch listens with me.
Gypsy highway leads west across staked plains,
Dreams unfurl like flags in the night,
Flapping freely in the wandering wind,
Amarillo morning breaks quietly,
We ride our Harley stallions sun at our backs,
We say goodbye to mirrored past,
Image in rearview of cattle,
Us no longer fenced in,
Bandana prayer flags flap in slip stream,
Our invocation for freedom to ring,
From Spanish Harlem to East L.A.,
Land cracks into ruddy red rock,
Tucumcari greets us with truck stop repast,
Onward we ascend front range,
Pilgrims on road to Lourdes of the heart,
To heal from ravages of corporate calumny,
Under vaulted skies of Arcadia.
I Kick down a gear,
Drop the clutch,
Twist hard open the throttle,
Fly screaming into the bright day on the highway to Roswell,
My friend and I two tumbleweeds rolling,
Tires singing freedom as we seek the secrets of night stars,
Somewhere ahead there might be aliens,
No stranger than the empty buildings and boarded-up stores,
Miles and miles of for-sale signs on homes and malls,
Even schools and theaters and gas stations,
The places that used to thrive with life,
Barren as the Moon up close and personal,
Vision-streaking wet with ghost-town eyes we rumble on,
Tattered and battered Old Glory streaming behind me,
Tied with heart to the back of my seat,
I look at the crop of death and destruction cold cash has grown,
Thinking Coyote must laughingly own all the banks,
Wondering if I might be better abducted by a UFO,
Somewhere gone on a dark New Mexican night.
As we ride down the highway
I see an old beat up windmill
Spinning in the breeze
We pull off the road
An old water pump by the windmill
Ground is dry and hard
But there is a patch of green grass by the pump
I pump the cool water and wash my face
We sit under the vast sunlit sky
Eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
I am amazed at how hungry I am
Windmill creaks as it spins
In the dry wind over us
After I lay down and gaze and up at cirrus clouds
As they pass over against the deep blue far away sky
I’d called my this land my spiritual home as a child
Sun is going down
The western sky is on fire
With crimson, and purple
The land is beginning to darken
I get up and find some dry tumbleweed
I break it into pieces and start a campfire
I wake to a cold morning with dew glistening in the grass
The rising sun is a huge orange fireball in the east
Open horizon and highway,
We plot a course through town after town,
Searching for a place untouched,
Some piece of utopia left standing,
A place where tumbleweed seeds can root and grow,
Until we find it,
We will roll with the wind.
John Hindle and Daniel A. Stafford collaboration.
