Corn stalks shine in the horizon,
Like a million tiny suns.
Sitting on the fender of your truck,
As the pink flush of evening,
Settles across the land like a blush
On the face of a very flat world.
"Shame he went out like he done,
Was a good boy, him."
I say nothing and stare a head,
The black asphalt in front on me
Bore down like a river,
Black and empty.
"Fall's coming on.
Figured I'd take a trip east to see the leaves."
I say nothing,
Just let the sadness of an old man crash over me,
I could almost pretend I could see ripples
On the black pavement, hear it in the corn.
Whispers, whispers in the August breeze.
"We used'ta plow this alone,
Every October, me brother and I,
Not gonna be the same this year."
The old man slides off the fender,
And I head for the passenger seat.
"Not gonna be the same, That's for **** sure."