Oh, for the days long gone away.
High on the hills, swaying with cedar.
Thick is the scent in the air, birch, fir and glorious pine.
Long have come the days of summer.
Filled the air with late August heat.
Watch the billowing rise.
Great white mountains of mist gather.
Crowning the Cascades, wanting to fall.
I smell the drying grass, hearing the rustling wind.
Off, o so far off, the thunderheads roll.
A basso rumble across the valley.
Rain does come.
Oh, for the days long gone away.
These monuments of weather climb higher.
They grow and change constantly.
Listen to them.
High towers of coming relief for the dry fields.
The deer, squirrel and circling hawk wait for it.
The drying streams cry out, trapped fingerlings hope against hope.
Comes the tympanic roar.
The rain does come.
Oh, for the days of my youth long gone away.
Seeing the thunderheads build.
Crowing the Cascades of my long lost home.
The basso rumble across the corridors of my soul.
A single tear falls.
And the rains come.
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