BeltLine Bells & Brunch Clatter

Lyrics

[Intro]
Sunday morning. Ten a.m.
The air on Edgewood Avenue is thick with quiet.
Just the slow creak of a porch swing.

[Verse 1]
Then the first sound arrives.
It’s a new sound, isn’t it?
Since October, two thousand and twelve.
A silver thread of sound, pulled along the old rail line.
The whir of rubber on pavement.
The polite little ding-ding as someone passes.
A new kind of bell for a new kind of artery.

[Chorus]
And this is the music of us, now.
BeltLine bells, a high, clean chime.
Children’s shouts from the green heart of Springvale.
And the clatter of forks on warm ceramic plates.
This is the Sunday song.

[Verse 2]
And then, from the dip in the land...
That’s Springvale talking.
The Olmsted Brothers knew how to shape a space to hold a sound.
A child’s yell, not of anger, but of pure flight.
It carries through the oaks, softened.
It’s not noise. It’s the sound of a lungful of sun.

[Chorus]
And this is the music of us, now.
BeltLine bells, a high, clean chime.
Children’s shouts from the green heart of Springvale.
And the clatter of forks on warm ceramic plates.
This is our Sunday song.

[Bridge]
And under it all, from Krog Street...
The hum.
The rich smell of coffee blooming in the air.
The clink of a mimosa glass against a tooth.
The scrape and tap of silverware.
A hundred conversations rising like steam.
A different bell, the ghost of one...
from eighteen eighty-nine...
A phantom clang of the electric trolley, now silent.
Replaced by this... this happy, hungry noise.

[Outro]
Listen.
The bike bell.
The distant joy.
The clatter.
All of it weaving together on the warm air.