I'm back at the Russian River again;
It's funny how things keep coming around,
Things I thought I had left behind are found
Around a corner where I thought I'd gain
Some forward motion, not the same old same.
The moon, ev'ry month, runs through its phases,
And the cycle of dawn, day, dusk, and night,
Counterpointing the migratory flight
Of birds and butterflies through the ages,
Are a few of the cycles, the stages,
That carry us along, that are our lives,
Embedded within complex cosmic tides.
Apple blossoms have scattered on the grass --
I have seen this before; it will soon pass.