Daybreak and weathered men with their fermented drinks,
make way for the morning.

Doorways dimly lit beyond the ruins of lesser worlds,
older boys laughing aloud,
Near the honest sun
and the absent clouds.

The mesa seemed heavy as birds shimmered above-
whats their place in all this land?

Mornings were always cold
even while sunbeams flourish,
The farmhands copper in color, congregate near cattle, pipes in hand, hoping for good days ahead.