Wayfaring Stranger

(A variant on the American traditional song "Wayfaring Stranger", as a narrative of the Great Plains and the Migrant Trail) I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger, Traveling through this world of dust. Where the soil is dry and the wind’s a-ranger, And the farm tools lay in a coat of rust. I’m going there to the western valleys, Where the orchards bloom and the rivers flow. I’m just a-going over Jordan, I’m just a-going over home. I know dark clouds will gather ‘round me, I know my way is steep and hard. But I’ve seen the black-walled twister find me, And tear the shingles from my yard. The sky turned noon into a midnight, The static lightning danced on high. But I’m still walking toward the sunlight, Beneath a vast and a hollow sky. I’ll soon be free from every trial, This drouth-burnt earth I’ll leave behind. I’ve walked a thousand weary miles, With a bitter peace and a restless mind. I’m going there to see my brother, Who found a job in the picking line. I’m going there to join my mother, In a land where the sun and the grapes combine.