William Elliott Whitmore Gravel Road
It must be that time of year
I'm feeling that pull again
I've got to get away from here
and back to where my feet can stand
Back to where the trees grow tall
and ain't a sound for miles around
Except for the distant call
of that lonely coyote's howl
Life's mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel
and I leave the paved road far behind
Every breath I breathe is one step closer to me
easing my worried mind
Way back in the sticks
is where I feel alive
in my rusty old '66
that won't even go fifty five
Nothing can compare
to the joy that I've found
every time I go back there
to my own spiritual ground
I'll make a quart of sweet corn whiskey
from ten gallons of sour mash
I'll turn a pile of firewood
into a pile of sky grey ash
If there's anything left inside me
that remembers what it's like to feel
that cold rain falling on the top of my head
and the mud beneath my heels
