BARLOW, John

Weather Report Suite Part 2

Morning comes, she follows the path to the river shore

Lightly sung, her song is the latch on the morning's door

See the sun sparkle in the reeds; silver beads pass into the sea

She comes from a town where they call her the woodcutter's daughter

She's brown as the bank where she kneels down to gather her water

And she bears it away with a love that the river has taught her

Let it flow, greatly flow, wide and clear

Round and round, the cut of the plow in the furrowed field

Seasons round, the bushels of corn and the barley meal

Broken ground, open and beckoning to the spring; black dirt live again

The plowman is broad as the back of the land he is sowing

As he dances the circular track of the plow ever knowing

That the work of his day measures more than the planting and growing

Let it grow, let it grow, greatly yield

What shall we say, shall we call it by a name

As well to count the angels dancing on a pin

Water bright as the sky from which it came

And the name is on the earth that takes it in

We will not speak but stand inside the rain

And listen to the thunder shout

I am, I am, I am, I am

So it goes, we make what we made since the world began

Nothing more, the love of the women, work of men

Seasons round, creatures great and small, up and down, as we rise and fall