It's the second half of spring
The coulees are turning green
They'll die again late in the summer
Trees are finally budding leaves
Above the ripped-up streets
And when it gets hot they'll be cover
Same as the last year and the last year
Same as the next year and the next year
How is the view from here?
How is the view from here?
I don't know, I've gotten used to it
I don't know, I've gotten used to it
The summer students stay
The rest have gone away
While the workers live like the rest of the year
They wish that they could go
Somewhere that wasn't so
Familiar after all this time here
Sometimes there's lots to do
Sometimes there's nothing new
Doesn't matter, weekday or weekend
But mostly hope the rain
Will drive the wind away
On the few days that it is sent
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