on a north dakotan winter
they hide up high -- heat rises
but not on a rig, he takes it with him--
you've seen a farmer save a calf
kneel into a half foot of snow
and fold the babe into his coat --
he takes the warmth and kneads it in,

his hands rough as hell but reach for you like you was
made of clay, like he fixin' to touch you but too scared

so he takes heat up like that, like it precious
and he's the sheath, he travels up the steel backbone with cords
and vitals o'erflowing,
the land is blue and black and glowing

the moon's a dusty desk lamp and he's not the
flying type -- meetin' place said porch light,
dim lantern, sunset. This cold is cruel and he the
only one that know what it does, and you can't
heal with no bloodflow.

have we lost the moon to moths?
you've heard why they gather 'round --
floodlights ain't the real deal,
neon's just the same, campfires barely
warm,
this way is just a false summit
as honorable as all this seems --

have we lost the moon to moths?
i hardly know, she's still there
there's not enough proof we can
navigate on our own.