the cold dirt road on  the mountain
its holes filled with ***** rainwater
a broken fence to one side
marking the edge of her farm
the trees obscure any distance
just patches of meadows and dark wood
the summer song of birds gone to roost
she walks alone hands buried in her pockets
she was born on this mountain
she will be an old woman here someday

a ****** of crows feast loudly
on some dead thing in the tall grass
of the bright haze of the meadow
untouched by breeze and soaked in sun
they gather at the overhang of a dead oak
where beer cans and spent bullets lay
like corpse's of a battlefield lament
the burnt shell of the oak
leans dangerously against the field stone
covered with graffiti
she would wait for him here
the ****** of crows gave way to silence
watching

her father was a good man in his way
lean and quiet with a dark look
but as her father goes to show
one man in his family's arms another in the world
the nature of a man changes when he
steps out his door
few know a man
sometimes none

she is a rare beauty small town girl
but as much as she dreams of the wider world
hard fact taught her nothing like home
the nature of the world changes when you
step out your door
few will care about you
sometimes none
she was born to the mountain
she is going to be an old woman here
few know the heart of a woman
sometimes none