[Verse 1] The frost has melted from the valley floor, We’re opening the latch upon the door. The Howell pulls the ledger from the chest, To put the quiet years to final rest. The Howey leads the stallions to the spring, To hear the songs the new-born seasons bring. The plow is cutting through the thawing earth, A signal of a grand and new rebirth. The ink is flowing black across the page, To capture the beginning of an age. [Chorus] The fields are waking under golden light, We’re moving on from all the long, cold night. The Howell records all the seeds we sow, The Howey watches how the pastures grow. We are the architects of field and line, With hearts that beat in rhythmic, grand design. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, We’re planting hope upon the open plain. [Verse 2] The Howell counts the cattle on the hill, With time for every dream we need to fill. The Howey breaks the colts with gentle hand, To reclaim all the beauty of the land. We’re building up the fences, wall by wall, Preparing for the harvest and the fall. The market is a whisper in the breeze, We’re trading on the bounty of the trees. The Howell and the Howey, side by side, With nowhere left for destiny to hide. [Chorus] The fields are waking under golden light, We’re moving on from all the long, cold night. The Howell records all the seeds we sow, The Howey watches how the pastures grow. We are the architects of field and line, With hearts that beat in rhythmic, grand design. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, We’re planting hope upon the open plain. [Bridge] The scars of all the silence fade away, Replaced by all the labor of the day. We’ve learned the value of the quiet breath, And how to build a life in spite of death. The Howell vision is a map of green, The finest land the valley’s ever seen. The Howey spirit is a running fire, The fuel for every dream and high desire. We are the living memory of old, Turning the simple pasture into gold. [Verse 3] The evening sun is painting peaks in red, We rest our weary bones upon our bed. The eleventh song is sung in praise of growth, A simple, honest, and a sacred oath. The ledger is a testament of pride, With all the love of family deep inside. The Howey is dreaming of the next long run, The Howell is counting what we’ve just begun. We’ve claimed the valley and we’ve claimed the crest, With a vision of the future that is best. [Chorus] The fields are waking under golden light, We’re moving on from all the long, cold night. The Howell records all the seeds we sow, The Howey watches how the pastures grow. We are the architects of field and line, With hearts that beat in rhythmic, grand design. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, We’re planting hope upon the open plain. [Outro] The plough is quiet in the shed of stone, We’ve reclaimed every acre of our own. The Howell is scribe, and the Howey is stride, With nowhere to go and with nothing to hide. The eleventh part is written in the soil, The glory and the beauty of our toil.
