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Story of Music

Whiled sitting in the Hilltop Ale House having a fish taco, a wonderful sensual bomb of flavor and satisfaction, and drinking a refreshing hard cider while reading the days paper I found that the background sound from the sound system had entered my consciousness. I hadn't heard a word or made out a cord. It was a message straight into my subconscious that I heard. I knew this was good. I asked the pregnant, and glowing in her pregnancy despite another day on the job carry her own weight and the weight of her someday soon child, barmaid, "Who is that playing?" "Iron and Wine", I was told without pause or embellishment.

Home again, stolen wireless beneath my fingers I searched out Iron and Wine. Ah, Sub Pop, a local company, cool. A moment later and I'd ordered all that had been published. Now, having listened to it all I share with you. Go buy this is you like it. Hey, it was featured on KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic, a trend maker if ever this time in America could make one.
PASSING AFTERNOON

There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from the piles of fallen leaves

There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children until she let's them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds

There are things we can't recall, Blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling around the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the window closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone
A Passing Afternoon fan site
A visual interpretation
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