Flying high o're deep blue sea, the windy forest below them.
The Mallards soar over boughs of trees, their inner compass to take them home.
Below the drafts through the canyon walls, the ancient trees reside there.
They sway and dance to the windy call, the strength of roots in the stone.
Down on the slopes to the sea. the rocky shore water caves, the silver light of day will shine on me as I skim over the waves.
In the morning I come to you, refreshed by my sojourn,we'll hold our hands and walk the fields of truth, and praise the land in the dawning light.