What lives below this granite crust Flourescent moss and rose-tinted brush Mid-afternoon The season is early winter The larch are gold and becoming, on a northern slope My feet dangle over the edge Will you throw me a rope They say that it's an Indian summer And 'though I'm tired of being the wind I'm howlin' again Oooh, ahhh. . . I listen for the owls breaking Of midnight bones I listen for the messages that speak From my own And 'though I don't know what time it is I know I am alone And 'though I'm tired of being the wind I'm howlin' again Oooh, ahhh The sky is sighing snow I'm singing in harmony Take a bit of refuge Beneath an old weathered tree And slowly, slowly I befriend the wind Ooh, ahh