Like an autumn wind, a chill on the bone
And the shadow drags night across the sky
To see in the gut what is blind to the eyes
Seek council in the angle of the rain
You must work with the acre you are given
And read the signs of your days
Barren sands favor no plow
To all life's work there is a season
The water at your feet, the rich black earth
The fire in your head
You must work with the acre you are given
And read the signs of your days
When the last golden shank hangs down
Like the old horns of the moon
If it rains on the long blasting gaze (?)
The killing frost will bite down hard
You must work with the acre you are given
And read the signs of your days