It's the season of prairie fever,
When the harvest of dreams is no more
From the holy mirage in the distance
To place these women in golden display
Or shape into bronzes these men made of clay.
There's somewhere, they say, in the far-off city,
Beyond these harmonies of oak and sky,
Where they would give it all away
To hear a velvet rope unclasp.
They depart from the train in light.
The world is somewhere else
And they are not somehow allowed life.
