There was a man who used to live by the ocean, but he never set foot in the sea. It made him nervous that the water was always in motion. And he feared the creatures who swam beneath him. And when I asked him how he'd ended up there, above a world he would never know, he said he'd driven all the way across America. And when he got to the edge, there was nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to go. He said that nothing lives long, only the earth and the mountains, as he quoted Black Kettle's death song. The words drifting off into the emptiness of this great land where we've never belonged. And while the frontiers are ever expanding, our living rooms fall into disarray. And no one seems interested in fixing what they've broken. They just sweep the pieces into the bushes and slip away. Slowly I slip away. Slowly I slip away. Slowly I slip away. Slowly I slip away. And now he and I watch the fox blood grow through the clear cut. Where a forest once grew high and wild. For what is a funeral without flowers? Ten thousand tombstones reaching for the sky. Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky... Reaching for the sky...