Migrant Birds

Lyrics

I cut away down through the mountains
A trail of dust through trees of pine
In search of gold or youthful fountain
But found not treasure, truth nor time

But in my search I found a friendship
A bond as a three-stranded cord
And in the company and kinship
I set my strings and I smithed my words

I’m going home to ease my ramblin’
Upon my grave I make my pledge
I’m going home to see my family
And rest my feet at the fire’s edge

I dressed myself to fit the picture
I chalked my hands to earn my bread
But through those years I heard the whisper
“This ain’t your home” is all it said

So I’m going home beyond the breakers
I’ve got my fingers on the ledge
I’m going home to meet my Maker
And wrestle there at the water’s edge

Let’s drag the pen across the pages
The tape is spinning on the track
Can’t say we’re made of the stock of ages
But this three-strand cord will bridge the gap

The moment’s now, the past is splintered
The future’s out ahead of us
I’d rather rue the past remembered
Than think of all that never was

So I’m going home to wooded acres
I’m going home my songs to dredge
I’m going home to meet my Maker
And rest my feet at the fire’s edge
I’m going home to meet my Maker
And wrestle there at the water’s edge

Winter descends, the weeks I’m countin’
Till down the coast again I’ll ride
I’m going home to the Blue Ridge Mountains
To where my family reside