First thing in the morning,
last thing at night,
sacred objects

come to light.

Sacred objects

once were rare,
now you find them
everywhere.


John Henry's hammer
all painted red,

a loaded pistol,
an empty bed,


a cement mixer,
a walking cane,
the arrow on

a weather vane.

A tired bird

flying South,
sounds come from
its open mouth.


Yeah, sing it, tired bird!


A tired bird
to rest its wings
perches on one

of the sacred things.

The light inside them

both is such
that nothing happens
when they touch.


Nothing happens,
when it does

it's almost like something
never was.


The light inside them
both goes out,
and where they were

is now in doubt.

No more is seen

no more is heard
of its sacred perch
or the tired bird.


A veil of silence
now descends,

and like all stories
this one ends.