Spring's coming. Today I ran for three miles in shorts and wasn't even cold.
Like most of Greg Brown's songs, this one's about Iowa...but it could have been about southeast Portland.
Spring and what's left of the hippies return
from old rooming houses and Mexico.
More letters, more journals, more poems to burn;
real heat at last.
At last my words glow.
My friend Jim just broke up his band;
the guys all have jobs and the nights got too long.
He's selling the amps, one guitar, and the van.
I'm sure you could have it all for a song.
Snow on the north side,
trash in the yard,
love like a newspaper tattered and stained.
A two-bourbon twilight,
fog from God's cigar,
the neighbor's retarded dog chasing the train.
Don't see any good in just hanging around;
take a tip from the birds and change the scene.
Find some long river and follow it down
to where our old sins have washed up in New Orleans.
Spring and what's left of the songbirds return,
to fight about loving and nesting and such.
Thanks for the letters you sent back to burn.
Their smoke is as light,
and as dark,
as your touch.