Carry through the light of the pines,
Where the fog drifts gently,
Where the birds pleasantly sing.
Where the strangers are kind,
Dress strangely,
So different from these car-choked streets,
And nobody knows anybody else's names,
Where the waitresses don't know your usual,
And the coffee tastes like burnt beans.

Where the Friday night football is a family event,
Even if the rugrats aren't in high school yet,
Where the number of trucks outnumber the cars,
And the rust spots adorn the bodies like badges on a decorated soldier,
And the mud is still spattered on the sides.