Holding an auspice in the center of town
She unveils that dirty sheet from her head
And watched the birds standing on the power lines
Waiting to see which direction they were heading
North or South
I know you'd shoot them down to tally your score
The Grand Design half-finished in his head
As he takes the bus down 38th again
A man in the back talks about his cigarette
How he left it on the corner of Indian Burn & Strange Fruit
How it was still there when he came back
He thought he was his own attacker too
A hole in the ceiling where the secrets escape
Her room smells like insence and Sudafed
As Winter moves into its position
Her prophecies are finally falling into place
In gas station reflections I don't have the heart to tell her
That any genius comes as coincidence