WHERE APPLES GROW

the kind of heat that rides piggyback on you
a thick bright afternoon
the kind where all four windows down ain’t quite enough.

up through the miles of orchards in their rows
on the road that sneaks along the creeks
where the sign says “beer and lunch” but they’re ten years closed.

I breathe in deep:
just cut grass and gasoline.

PRE-CHORUS
I left the fold
but I forgot the goal
now I’m counting up the things that I still know
leave my city skin by the side of the road

I was born in a hot green valley
the kind of valley where apples grow.

the birds are trying, the cicadas are winning
a jet draws a white line
above the fields buzzing with everything living.

a lazy breeze
is tugging on the power lines and apple trees.

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS
I was born in a hot green valley
the kind of valley where apples grow
from the hillsides of Adams County
to where the highway cuts below
and I met a man from out of town who told me that I couldn’t know
well maybe I didn’t know
but now I know.

and the sun sinks out of sight
we bounce down long gravel drives
park the car and walk among
eruptions of fireflies.

PRE-CHORUS

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS