Track Insight / Lyrics
He leans against the barn wall, thumb on soil,
Calling Quercus robur to slow the wind.
The crickets drum the second beat, tuxedo straps behind,
While a muted trumpet sighs over the dusty porch.
Plantago major bends, leaves whispering,
He curls a seed‑shaped fist—steady patience.
Ricinus communis watches, shadows in the hinges,
Crickets strum the strings, their breath tick‑TACK‑tick.
In the half‑light bin at midnight, the bass hums like a root,
The bird‑lobby echoes, muted trumpet tones in a jar.
He hears the crickets tuning up, their legs a metronome,
And the barn’s old shutters creak—organ of the earth.
The underground groove—no frost, no flame—only stone,
The crickets hiss, a quiet festival, clasping the barn’s alms.
He nods, a gardener of days, letting the chords bloom,
The idle jaws of the barn’s backcape finish the rhythm.
The muted trumpet sighs, the upright bass settles—
The crickets finish tuning, clawing the dusk.
He watches the barn breathe, the dirt feel the pulse,
The silence stays, as the night paints the final note.
