Odes to Avondale Estates · Track 20 · closer
Porch Lights Around Lake Avondale
The closer — Avondale's porch lights ringing Lake Avondale at twilight, the half-timbered Tudor gables glowing one by one, the swans on the dark water, the slow Sunday-evening goodnight. The 1924 dream still keeping the lights on. Sisukiro at the lake.
Lyrics
The lake holds its breath.Sunday evening. Seven-fifteen. The sky over Clarendon Avenue bruises to a deep indigo. The last of the day's heat lifts off the asphalt, and the air smells of pine needles and cool, dark water. We sit here, on the grass, just watching. Waiting for the signal nobody gives.And there. The first one. A soft, yellow square on Lakeshore Drive. Then another, next door. A conversation in light. A slow chain reaction. A ring of quiet fire drawn around the water.The half-timbered gables turn to silhouettes. The swan boats are asleep in their little Tudor house, painted that same serious brown. No one says "now." No one directs it. A hundred hands, in a hundred kitchens, reach for a switch on the wall. A small, clean click that carries across the lake if you listen.And there. The first one. A soft, yellow square on Lakeshore Drive. Then another, next door. A conversation in light. A slow chain reaction. A ring of quiet fire drawn around the water. The promise is still lit.Did you see this, Mr. Willis? Back in 1924, when it was all just ink on a map? A candy magnate's Stratford, not on the Avon, but here. Did you imagine this quiet nightly vote? A hundred small affirmations that yes, we are still here. Yes. We are still keeping your dream.The circle is complete now. Every porch, every door. A necklace of amber beads on the dark throat of the night. The swans are just white shapes on black glass. Goodnight, Avondale. Goodnight, lake.