lost song bird

An anachronistic
song bird
sings in the fall.
She sings some archaic
strange word
that I don't understand at all.

I sit in the maple trees
with the wind
blowin' through her yellow leaves.
I have to wonder who's breath it might be.

You with the raven, dark hair.
You with the cold, blue stare.
You know the hearts of men.
Would you say, on a whim,
Is it the end?

This desert dust,
wont come off my guitar strings.
No matter how I play,
No matter how I sing.