Raise your voice in the valley, Jim, and sing it against the mountains.
Echo it back to us, ragged and brave. Thrust forward, with guitars billowing,
Arched masthead of music. I'll race my children through hills in my truck
With the sound of it stretched overhead like borealis.
Entrenched in music, they will never touch us,
Man, child and infant. The camber and apex of each curve,
Trees fingerlocked overhead. The outcrop of limestone,
The abyss. Never stop running.
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