i watch the clouds shape-shift this morning from inside the glass cafe
my two hands are my home and i wait for coffee and the paper whispers stories from miles away
dancing through monday to sunshine
on tuesday i wont be found
through lemon grass and leaves, pine trees and weeds, another year has gone round
here i find myself too far north
patiently waiting for the end of the rain
and though i see the mountains different now,
you can bet that the mountains still see me the same
and my feet have grown into the hillside too fast for me to have known
that through bottles and heels, smoke rings and car wheels, none of us are truly alone
because day turns to dusk and we fight and make up and cry and the sun goes to rest
and our bike tires spin like this world we are in and the highway is the home i know best
the highway is the home i know best
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