Buckhead Village: Pre-Colonial Pathways

Lyrics

Before the glass.
Before the iron stake.
Breathe in.
Can you smell the pine resin?
The damp red clay after a summer shower?
Listen.

This wasn't a road.
It was a suggestion in the leaves.
A memory held by the earth.
A dark thread through the Georgia pines.
The Mvskoke knew the way.
Their feet spoke a language to the ground.
Following the ridges,
avoiding the wet hollows.

The path is still here.
Under the curb at East Paces Ferry.
Under the hot blacktop of Peachtree.
It remembers the weight of a moccasin.
It remembers the scent of woodsmoke.
The city is a dream the path is having.

Bundles of deerskin, smelling of salt and sun.
Dried corn rattling in a pouch.
And in a small bundle, tied with care...
yaupon holly.
For the black drink, for the clear mind at the creek crossing.
No sound but the woodpecker's knock,
the rasp of the load shifting on a shoulder.

The path is still here.
Under the curb at East Paces Ferry.
Under the hot blacktop of Peachtree.
It remembers the weight of a moccasin.
It remembers the scent of woodsmoke.
The city is a dream the path is having.

They say James Montgomery built a tavern here.
They say a buck's head marked the spot.
But the crossroads was already here.
Not of packed gravel, but of intention.
A place to meet. A place to trade.
A place to rest before the river.
The women who cured the hides, their hands are in this soil.
The children who gathered the sticks for the fire, their laughter is in the rustle of the oak leaves.

Close your eyes at the intersection.
Block out the horns, the engines.
There.
The quiet.
The pine resin.
The path is breathing under your feet.
It's waiting.