Willow road runs south along the ridge side to the ocean. An older
version of the great highway one down below it. Down where willow road
ends there's a town a half block long where no one asks your
name—they take you for how you came—'cause the folks all know what
it means to be a drifter.
There's a young man standing on the corner at the northern edge. His
mind is swirling 'cause he's budding through the rough and he aint
quite seen enough. So his crazy game starts at the liquor store while
the afternoon still sparkles on the river.
There's a long lost tale for every lonely shed forsaken in the
meadow. The last pieces of history are on display in the town hall
window. The town hasn't changed since the gold rush faded past, but I
see modern jet planes pass leaving trails of white to their urban
destinations.
Last time on willow road I slept on the shoreline through the
afternoon. Once evening fell I wandered in to the old river
saloon. They were talking about willow road and how the bulldozers
will come to make it two lanes instead of one. So everyone can see the
wooded hills timelessly surrender to the ocean.
Copyright 2003 Jon Swift
Recorded at Club G-Ma's and the Pink House.
Jon Swift: piano, percussion, acoustic guitar, electric guitars and
vocals.
Fernie Apodaca: violin.
Sylvia Apodaca: cello.
