
The Bones of Bodie, California [KW]
[Intro] [Minor key fingerpicked guitar, slow and steady like a heartbeat. A lonely, echoing mandolin melody enters after 4 bars.] [Verse 1] The sagebrush creeps across the street where thousands used to tread And the wind is the only living thing in this city of the dead The windowpanes are hollow eyes that stare across the floor And a low and heavy moan resides in every sagging door The timber yields at last to time, it’s bowing toward the dust Like an old man’s tired shoulders, worn with heavy years and rust. [Chorus] Oh, the mountain doesn't care for gold, she only wants the silence The granite keeps its secrets from the greed and from the violence While the buildings fall like miners who have worked a final shift And the wild poppies bloom in every silver-threaded drift. [Instrumental Interlude] [Slow, mournful fiddle solo over a rolling guitar rhythm] [Verse 2] There’s a contrast in the valley where the lupine reaches high And the peaks of white-capped granite pierce the crystal of the sky The ghosts don't mind the beauty, they just watch the seasons turn While the paint peels off the clapboard and the summer sunsets burn The creek still runs as clear as glass, indifferent to the cost Of the dreams that built the boardwalks and the lives that we have lost. [Chorus] Oh, the mountain doesn't care for gold, she only wants the silence The granite keeps its secrets from the greed and from the violence While the buildings fall like miners who have worked a final shift And the wild poppies bloom in every silver-threaded drift. [Bridge] There was laughter in the parlor once, and fire in the grate Now there’s nothing but the weather and the iron hand of fate We think we own the earth we dig, we think the land is ours But the desert always wins it back with wind and sun and flowers. [Outro - Lyrics] The eyes are wide, the mouths are still And the grass is growing o'er the hill The silver's gone, . . . the light remains... [Outro - Instrumental] [Extended instrumental: The guitar slows down, the mandolin plays a final descending scale, fading into the sound of a whistling wind.]

