Through winding, narrow, dusty lanes
We drove the old bay mare,
My small son's hands holding the reins,
While on the quiet air
We heard each note the meadow lark
Played on his silver flute.
Now roads are straight and paved. But hark!
The rippling, glad salute
Has grown so slow, as we race by
We hear but one short note.
Hands on the wheel, Son gives a sigh.
A tightening in my throat,
I hear about his dream airplane
And yearn for dusty roads again.
