Way down south, out on Wesson's Bend
The geese are a' callin' their way on the wind
I'm here in the holla' with the oaks in long quiet
While my own restless mind is comforted by it
There over yonder lies the river and willows
And those muddy banks contrast the sky's drifting pillows
The cane thicket north catches sun in gold slivers
Reflecting in motion, like a thousand clear rivers
There's a sycamore rising through its' carpet of green
A lonely white sentinal to guard nature's scene
I reckon I'll stay here, til' the sun is done fallin'
Ya'll listen closely...you'll hear the geese callin'