Fall asleep on a tiny hill above town,
the sun's gone down,
the breeze is bring leaves to chat;
level with the browning grass beneath.
Its tuck in time and all those prayers are
floating up like birds migrating south,
but there's nothing up that way but a full moon
and some stars.
Some angel catches all those prayers,
and with her fishnet full of hope,
brings 'em to the spark where the dead leaves meet the dying grass,
and fire smoke mingles with the spirits.
And prayers are wooed, danced, charmed,