Short Arctic desert day, and someone left their snowshoes in the tundra.
Look around every which way, but I can't see just where the footprints go.
Is it a casual disappearance?
Plucked from the middle atmosphere like straw wind-blown.
No speck on the horizon,
No simple message scrawled upon the snow.

Unearthly visitation--someone left their snowshoes in the tundra.
Hungry buzzard flier circling 'round and 'round rattling death's tambourine.

Have to run it down the cold wire--late insertion in tomorrow's lost and found.
Should I spread out searching? But I'm a little thin upon the ground.

So I raise my lips to coax the last drop of brandy from the bottle.
Rest my feet and contemplate the mystery that's haunting
this Siberian s___e.

Showshoes, they bind me down--I'm just one more parasite of the surface layer.
I begin to get the feeling, I've been on this stage before and I'm the only player.

One more Arctic desert day--another set of shoes out in the tundra snow.
I make my fade to white-out, and you can't see me where my footprints go.

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