Sanoja: Mother Hips. Potrero Road.

You can drive up from the ocean and the road curves hard and steep.
The oak trees disappering as the houses start to creep.
Up the sweeping fields of sourgrass, the sagebrush stay aloof.
They're carried to these sacred hills on leather boots and hooves.

And what will you tell the young men who are quietly conversing,
the sun sinking low on the images they are commonly nursing?
There's no discussing consequence; the hammer on your thumb
and not about destinations, but where we come from.

If we died tonight, my lover,
there could never be another night like tonight.
'Cause the world you've spent this life preparing for
doesn't even exist behind my eyes.

In the darkness at the end, sister, I'll kiss your golden hair.
I'll hold the gate and watch you dance into the crystal air
and I'll just disappear...