The Neighbors: Dunwoody, Roswell, Buckhead, Vinings

Lyrics

You can’t know a place by its lines on a map.
You know it by the shadows its neighbors cast.
You know it by the roads that lead out... and the roads that lead back in.
Up north, across the river, that’s Roswell breathing.
Roswell King’s old ghost, still believing
in the power of a creek, the turn of a mill wheel.
You can feel it walking down Canton Street.
A different kind of quiet.
A history settled deep in the brick, since eighteen fifty-three.
And just over there, to the east, that’s Dunwoody.
They get it. They understand the fight.
Their calendar has a page just like ours.
January, two thousand and eight.
The sound of new seals being stamped.
Perimeter Center’s glass towers scrape a different piece of the same sky.
And we sit here, in the middle of it all.
Watching the headlights flow on 285.
We are Sandy Springs.
Defined by the river at our back,
and the names on the signs just down the track.
Roswell, Dunwoody, Buckhead, Vinings.
Each one a different reflection in the window.
Look south, you see that haze? That permanent glow?
That’s Buckhead.
Where a hunter once nailed a deer’s head to a post.
Now it’s Phipps Plaza and Lenox Square holding court.
A faster pulse. A sharper light.
Another world, just a few miles away, burning through the night.
And west, if you cross the 'Hooch one more time,
you'll find Vinings.
Quiet, unincorporated. Holding its own.
Built on the line William H. Vining laid for the Western & Atlantic.
A village feel at the Jubilee.
A place that decided being a town was enough.
The old town, the new city.
The luxury, the simplicity.
They all circle us. They all press in.
They show us where we end...
and where the rest of the world begins.
We draw our lines on the map.
But the heart doesn't know them.
We’re just here.
Home.