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The 45th Parallel (Hanson)

Early Fall—Up North Atlanta in the pines
between the North Pole and equator,
we are toes upon the line.
Two blocks west—of the only light in town,
John serves up the coffee
and the best pie around.
On this long road that we’ve traveled,
when the antlers turn to bone
we were ragged and unraveled,
and this town it felt like home.

Forty-five—for a night down at the motel,
but it’s carseats and a flannel
just west of Thunder Bay.
Full Corn Moon—shines on the dashboard of the Honda.
We are hearts a’way out yonder
on the highway.
And, the moon it glows like embers
in the branches of the pines
in this small town in September
on this parallel line.

Chorus:
Yeah, let’s take the long way home.
Turn up the radio. Ride the backroads slow.
Oh, the towns they slide right by,
and it’s just you and I. We can take our time.

We’ve been shaped—by the river and the glacier.
Our story’s written in the landscape.
We share an icy past.
All I knew—lay forgotten in the leaf pile—
blowing wild around our ankles—
racing by too fast.
And, the geese are on the flyway
to the Gulf of Mexico.
How they navigate the skyway,
I guess I’ll never know.

Chorus:
Yeah, let’s take the long way home.
Turn up the radio. Ride the backroads slow.
Oh, the towns they slide right by,
and it’s just you and I. We can take our time.

Early Fall—Up North Atlanta in the pines
between the North Pole and equator,
we are toes upon the line.