we was runnin through the fields of burnin dandelions your mind is what i reside in tilling up the garden of the gods that i owe because it s planted in my mind that i ll reap what i sew i know they turned from golden suns to cream cropped moons shepherd s clocks swaying to the call of a loon they swoon at the sight close up with the rain and we channel wind wishin for their coming days i am a golden son a cream cropped moon a shepherds clock swaying to the call of a loon i swoon at the sight close up with the rain and you channel wind wishing for my coming days i watched the trees get dressed in their sunday best crying amber in the shade as they readied for rest they say see me in october for the last of my breath and i will see that you surpass another winters attest you are a golden sun setting fire to the lone the places you have never been but still call home you are the birds flying south are the rivers are the seams of the quilt that warms kin clean