Wind on the wire, sun on a blade, Saddle creaks low where the long shadows fade. A drifter rides quiet with a storm in his chest, Counting his miles by the stars in the west. Out on the flats as the day turns to night, A lonesome small house with a steady candle light. A woman bakes bread with the sky in her eyes, Teaching two young’uns how the tough world survives. Roll, tumbleweed, roll—carry hope across the plain, Tie a whisper to your thorns and outrun the coming rain. If a stranger finds the words, maybe he’ll learn how to stay— Roll, tumbleweed, roll—show a lost soul the way. He’s worked for his keep where the night-riders run, Tracked calf-thieves at dawn with the barrel of a gun. He don’t speak of dreams, just the work in his hands, But right is a fence line a true man defends. She knots little notes to the weeds when they break, Sets them loose on a wind like a prayer on a lake. “Is there someone who hears?” says the script small and thin— “Bring your courage and water, then come on in.” Roll, tumbleweed, roll—carry hope across the plain, Tie a whisper to your thorns and outrun the coming rain. If a stranger finds the words, maybe he’ll learn how to stay— Roll, tumbleweed, roll—show a lost soul the way. Trouble rides mean in a dust-brown band, Cutting brands in the dark, leaving blood in the sand. He stands where the trail meets the edge of her land, Says nothing at first—just opens his hand. There’s coffee and quiet and the scrape of a chair, The sound of a life that could fit him there. Not a promise in sight, just a roof, just the rain, Just a woman who’s weathered the wear of the plains. Some folks are rivers, some folks are stone, Some wander forever and call it their home. But sometimes a message will catch on a boot, And a rider will answer like a seed answers root. Roll, tumbleweed, roll—carry hope across the plain, Tie a whisper to your thorns and outrun the coming rain. If a stranger finds the words, maybe he’ll learn how to stay— Roll, tumbleweed, roll—show a lost soul the way. Now the wind still sings where the cottonwoods bend, About a house on the flats and a hard-choosing end. A rider hung his hat where the night turns to day— ’Cause a tumbleweed letter finally showed him the way.
