The 45th Parallel Lyrics

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.

Backcountry (Hayes)

big deer and black bear
fat goose and tall moose
sharp ax and backpack
blaze orange wool cap

wild running rivers
cold weather shivers
rough trails before me
splinter and sliver

base layer under
I wish I was younger
put on the rain gear
I hear the thunder

saw blade and new knife
marry a nice wife
go to the forest
carve out a fine life

leaves in the road hide
critters from eye sight
I stepped on a frog’s
leg on his left side

trailheads and trail-mix
firesteel and feather-sticks
tinder from birch bark
bear bag before dark

mud on my ruck sack
big mounds of moose scat
high hills and mountains
hours to get back

backcountry camping
I like what I do
If you ever try it
you might like it, too

Emily Dickinson (Hanson)

You ask of my companions, Sir,
hills and the sundown and a dog
who strolls along with me
in woods and fields thick with fog.

I do not cross my father’s ground
to any house or any town.
My friendships are in letters, Sir,
for this is what I most prefer.

Chorus:
Open me carefully,
for I am only stardust.
And, you are the wind that rocked the grass.
And, you are the one who
brought down all the leaves,
and blew straight through this cotton dress
with the buttons on the sleeves.

Upstairs in my corner room,
I have a table with a drawer.
Here I write of life and death
while all around us is the War.

I’ve tended flowers all my life
and pressed them in this heavy book
and labeled each with Latin names—
these plants that grow beside the brook.

Chorus:
Open me carefully,
for I am only stardust.
And, you are the wind that rocked the grass.
And, you are the one who
brought down all the leaves,
and blew straight through this cotton dress
with the buttons on the sleeves.

I’ve had a threat I've told to none
and withered from its bitter wrath,
so I’ve written down my final wish—
the clothes, the flowers, and the path.

First, place me in this cotton dress.
Then, lace my neck with violets.
Circle ‘round the garden gate.
These friends I leave are my estate.

Chorus:
Open me carefully,
for I am only stardust.
And, you are the wind that rocked the grass.
And, you are the one who
brought down all the leaves,
and blew straight through this cotton dress
with the buttons on the sleeves.

Chorus:
Open me carefully,
for I am only stardust.
And, you are the wind that rocked the grass.
And, you are the one who
brought down all the leaves,
and blew straight through this cotton dress
with the buttons on the sleeves.

Saugerties, New York (Hanson)

Yellow, gingham, cafe curtains and aprons on the wall.
I have wandered down a side street to a Kitchen named after a girl.
I am empty bowls and dried-up wells seated under pressed tin tiles.
And, I wonder is this river a ribbon between us and all these miles.

In the village, lights blink on and sidewalks swell with crowds.
I have waded through the water with its branches and its bottles all around.
I am dusty books and parchment pages and poems that I’ve never written down.
I could fit among the knickknacks and trinkets in this fact’ry town.

Chorus:
Oh, I could pull you into this small-town scene.
Grease the chains and the gears of this old machine.
Rent a one-bedroom dream on Partition Street.
Wear your six-string ring over my heart beat.

My east-side room, it glows with light in the hazy morning shine.
I have slumbered in a lighthouse weathered by the “American Rhine.”
I am crystal water and ocean brine and a river that flows two ways.
I get wrecked and sometimes rescued by whatever they call “love” these days.

Chorus:
Oh, I could pull you into this small-town scene.
Grease the chains and the gears of this old machine.
Rent a one-bedroom dream on Partition Street.
Wear your six-string ring over my heart beat.

Old-time theater down on Main Street. Early evening rain.
I am passing by a poster of two lovers embracing near a train.
I am romance movies and big-screen drama and New York-neon signs.
If I bottle up my love for you, would this liquid fire shine?

Chorus:
Oh, I could pull you into this small-town scene.
Grease the chains and the gears of this old machine.
Rent a one-bedroom dream on Partition Street.
Wear your six-string ring over my heart beat.
Wear your six-string ring over my heart beat. 

River Street (Hayes)

Down on River Street,
there’s an open flag that hangs
where the drinkers can go
to get a drink they know.
The locals all stop on in
for their beer, wine, whiskey, and gin.
It’s just another day down on River Street.

Chorus:
Oh, this river rolls on.
Though I’ve nowhere to go, I’m gone.
Yeah, this river rolls on,
and I’m gone, gone, gone.

Upstairs lives Mary Lou.
She likes Magic Hat and merlot, too.
She works behind a barand drives a silver car.
Across the street, there’s a window shop.
It stands beside a vacant lot
along the river’s edge.
It’s the perfect spot.

Chorus:
Oh, this river rolls on.
Though I’ve nowhere to go, I’m gone.
Yeah, this river rolls on,
and I'm gone, gone, gone.

Andrea stopped in today.
She was with her kids, Ryder and Sway.
She was looking for a job
but was turned away.
Commuter trains pass all day.
They run from Boston to Portland, Maine,
and you can catch one over there
in Railroad Square.

Chorus:
Oh, this river rolls on.
Though I've nowhere to go, I’m gone.
Yeah, this river rolls on,
and I’m gone, gone, gone.

Chorus:
Oh, this river rolls on.
Though I've nowhere to go, I’m gone.
Yeah, this river rolls on,
and I'm gone, gone, gone, gone.

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.

Ann Arbor to Up North Atlanta (Hanson)

I took the life line north across the heart line.
Left the cities in my mirror for the great, tall pines.
There is a sign there that marks the place where
this town is connected to my home.

It’s a long, slow drive up here on the 75,
and this road is playing tricks on my mind.
Gas-station coffee and the wind upon my face
are the only things keeping me awake.

Chorus:
And, if I could, you know I would
rest upon your road.
I’ve got a heavy load riding on my name.
Tuck me into your hand-knit heart.
Light my weary way.

More than a thousand wrecks have been counted
on these rough, inland seas.
Oh, we are lightning for a moment, and then, we are
just stardust on the breeze.

Chorus:
And, if I could, you know I would
rest upon your road.
I’ve got a heavy load riding on my name.
Tuck me into your hand-knit heart.
Light my weary way.
Oh-oh, tuck me into your hand-knit heart.
Light my weary way.

Fly Fishing the Big Hole (Hanson)

I’ve missed these skies and the Rockies by my side.
It’s a Big Sky Country where the mountains shine.
So, don’t mind me. I’m just laying out my line.
I know these waters. I can fish without a guide.

I’ve missed this land and working with my hands
on the Big Hole River where the tall trees stand.
Got this here bottle. Gonna fill it up with sand.
Gonna bring a little sparkle to my sweetheart and …

Chorus:
You can fish upon the ranches if you promise you will close the gate.
And, it’s “hello” to Montana. Grab your gear, and don’t be late.
I’ve been blessed with rainbows, with graylings, and with browns.
Another year on the river in this western town.

I can feel it in my bones. My heart skips like a river stone.
I’ve fished with friends. Now, I fish alone.
Wherever I may go, it’s a great land I’ve known,
and in the morning, I’ll head out on my own.

Chorus:
You can fish upon the ranches if you promise you will close the gate.
And, it’s “hello” to Montana. Grab your gear, and don’t be late.
I’ve been blessed with rainbows, with graylings, and with browns.
Another year on the river in this western town.

I’m watching for the rise though the current here is swift.
Laying out my line and following the drift.
Nothing’s on my mind, when I’m playing a fish
with a hand-tied fly. Oh, this life is a gift.

Chorus:
You can fish upon the ranches if you promise you will close the gate.
And, it’s “hello” to Montana. Grab your gear, and don’t be late.
I’ve been blessed with rainbows, with graylings, and with browns.
Another year on the river in this western town.
Another year on the river in this western town.

The Storm (Hayes)

a flicker of an oil lamp
and a sliver of a moon
a generator humming
it’s an old familiar tune

an early storm this year
has crippled many towns
the heater that I cleaned
will come in handy now

Chorus:
it blew in from the sea
brought down the power lines
and, all the troubles on my mind fell away
as I worked to keep the flame alive

outside my front window
I watch the falling snow
as the wind begins to whistle
and the currents start to blow

I have enough supplies
to last throughout the night
the forecast is saying
there is no end in sight

the long wicks I keep
I’ll burn them way down low
and when it’s time to sleep
I’ll dim the lantern’s glow

waiting for the linemen
up north it could take days
but, that’s alright with me
I kind of like it this way

Chorus:
it blew in from the sea
brought down the power lines
and, all the troubles on my mind fell away
as I worked to keep the flame alive

coffee at 5 am
brewed on an outside grill
it’s dawn the next morning
there is no power still