Intertextuality #6/Robin Pecknold Live in Seattle
A man walks barefoot into an open field, shovel strapped to his back. Stopping to look up into the setting sun, he slowly swings the shovel and grips it firmly in his rough hands. He begins to dig.
Clouds move apocalyptically over his head as he burrows deeper into the ancient soil. Hours roll by, but he doesn't tire. Stopping occasionally to look up at the slowly disappearing sky, the man begins to hum. Softly at first, his voice rough from disuse, he attempts to hold a tune.
After days of labor the man stops abruptly. He looks up but can no longer see the sky. Bending down, his knees creak and snap, nearly disintegrating beneath him. The man reaches down into the cool earth and spreads his fingers out; he feels millions of years sink under his fingernails.
Cupping a distinctly dark patch of dirt, the man lifts it to his face, breathes deeply and swallows it whole. It burns down his throat. He looks up and the sky is above him once more. The man begins to sing loudly, the ancient melodies come forth unattended by thought or memory.
Sunlight over me, no matter what I do
When you talk you hardly even look in my eyes
In the morning
In the morning
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