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A Blue Sky Turned to Rust (Hanson)

There was copper there for countin’ in the shadow of the mountain,
so we settled near the river’s edge.
There were more than fifty houses for the miners and their spouses—a church up on the ledge.

Candled helmet. Pitch black mine.
Down into this pit, we climbed.
Pick and hammer. Drill and hoist.
We tapped the twisted channels with our points.

Rooftops and timbers hit. Kegs of nails and barrels split.
Warnings of the reckoning to come.
Visits to the settlement by those who know the Great Spirit
and the heartbeat of the drum.

Chorus:
I remember Queen Anne’s Lace—
the curve of your face.
It’s forever August in this place,
and you’re gone without a trace.

The pastor heard the plea by those who traveled up the mountain road
and called his flock together with a toll.
"We must depart this sacred ground or harm will come to all around,”
said the pastor to his frightened fold.

Light a candle. Place the Bible
on the table near the children’s beds.
Tend the garden. Work the mine.
Scrub the floor, and make the daily bread.

On a clear day late in August, a blue sky turned to rust.
Gravel banks began to slide.
Can't say we weren't warned of this—black cloud like a fist.
Sand and stone stifled every cry.

Same time in the village square, the pastor said a little prayer
with tender loving care.
That cloud it stretched from north to south and east to west
and gathered up the rest.

Chorus:
I remember Queen Anne's Lace—
the curve of your face.
It's forever August in this place,
and you’re gone without a trace.
Gone without a trace.