Wild Roots: Before the Fairway

Lyrics

Before the fairway...
Before the cut grass and the numbered holes...
I'm listening for you.

There were no straight lines then.
No curbs, no property pins.
Just the slow argument of a root against a stone.
The sun came down in pieces, through an oak-and-hickory ceiling.
A million green windows.
And the air was thick with pine, and damp earth, and the breath of things growing and dying in their own time.
No sound of an engine.
Just the creek speaking its one silver word, over and over.

This was before the name.
Before the club, before the claim.
This was just the land breathing.
Peachtree Creek, not as a street, but a truth...
fed by the quiet orchards of the Muscogee.
Your wild roots, sleeping under the green.

The paths were worn by deer, then by moccasins.
Not paved, but persuaded from the ground.
Late summer, the air held a different weight.
The smoke of the Green Corn Busk, a prayer for renewal.
A thanksgiving for the harvest, for forgiveness given and received.
A fire at the heart of the world,
reflecting in the eyes of the Cherokee, passing through.

This was before the name.
Before the club, before the claim.
This was just the land breathing.
Peachtree Creek, not as a street, but a truth...
fed by the quiet orchards of the Muscogee.
Your wild roots, sleeping under the green.

Do you still feel it?
Under the asphalt, under the foundations...
the memory of that unbroken shade?
Does the water in the storm drain remember when it ran clear?
When it knew nothing but the taste of fallen leaves and sky?

Before the fairway...
The wild roots are dreaming.
Deep.
Quiet.
Waiting.