Skyline Lights from Centennial to the Capitol

Lyrics

June. Seven forty-five.
The last of the sun is a smudge of copper behind the glass towers.
And you start to light up for me.
Just for me.

Down below, the Fountain of Rings breathes out.
A timed sigh of mist that smells like ozone and clean water.
I can feel the low thrum of the 75/85 Connector through the soles of my shoes.
The day shift is going home.
The night shift is clocking in.
And here, on the overlook, the city holds its breath.
The first few office windows blink on, a scattered code.

And there's the line.
The one the planners never drew, the one the security guard saw in 2005.
From the Quilt of Quilts, straight up the canyon of Peachtree.
Past the Bank of America spire, that sharp needle against the indigo.
All the way to the lantern.
All the way to the gold.

Henry D. Wood Jr., in 1958, he knew.
Forty-three ounces of Dahlonega gold, hammered thin as a prayer.
To catch this exact light.
One thousand, two hundred and forty-four panes of milk glass,
hand-wiped by a man on a cherry picker every spring.
He knows your seams. He knows your dust.
He polished you for this one moment, tonight.

And I see the line.
The one the planners never drew, the one the security guard saw in 2005.
From the Quilt of Quilts, straight up the canyon of Peachtree.
Past the Bank of America spire, that sharp needle against the indigo.
All the way to the lantern.
All the way to your gold.

I think about the landscape crew from 1996.
The ones who planted the oaks that frame this view just so.
Their names are not on a plaque.
They just gave us the window.
This whole city, a frame for that one, single light.
That quiet promise, made in 1889.
Still keeping watch.

The copper is gone now.
Only the dome holds the memory of the sun.
The whole grid answers it.
The whole skyline bows to it.
Goodnight, gold dome.
Goodnight, Atlanta.