He’s like a crater at the bottom of a cliff
Tricked buffalo, in another south montana stiff
And when the clouds come down to drink right from the source
They leave the iron, take the water, back on course.
But further south, where there are no buffalo, more cliffs.
Who’ll take the blood, If the sky is dry, if the land is crisp?
It’ll have to go on with the next season’s rain storm.
It’ll have to go, It’ll have to go, but’ll leave here warm.
I know the night it has fallen
I hope the rain it will come
I know the sky it aint falling
I know, I know
But I don’t
For seven days, the buzzards watch, the buzzards wait.
For seven days, four shades of grey, miles out of state.
I’ll head up north where days are short, and nights are cold.
Up there i’ll sleep, all through the week, chilled to the bone.
Blue desert night, through loss of sight, through blackened stones
Beneath the stars, those deepened scars, line up the bones.
To the sky itself, to the clouds above, please take your dues.
For the buffalo on the broken cliffs, this crushing news.