as i wind down the pines
it's the lines on your face
playing on your face

without thinking so much
as abandoning thought
i went through open country
over water, meadows, streams
lakes and wires and roosts in reeds
to a nest in the hole of this dead tree

to play without stopping or pause
not for silence, not for applause
not without thinking
and thinking is abandoning thought

as i wind down the pines
it's the lines on your face
playing on your face