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(BMI) Eyes Of A Painter Words & Music by Kate Wolf Gray-haired and flint-eyed, his sunburned face lined Grandpa was a man of few words But he had a way of not wanting to say any more than he thought would be heard The long years of living and day to day giving had carved out a map on his face With little to lose, hed learned how to choose and his choices were easy to trace He had the eyes of a painter, heart of a maker of songs His words fell like rain on the dry desert plain precious and so quickly gone From a long line of teachers, white Baptist preachers he was born with an Indian will His quiet dark eyes reading the light as he rode in the low Osage hills His school was the prairie, the Sage, the wild berry, the Quail, the wide open sky, The Cottonwood thicket by the slow rolling river, the Redbud and the hot cattle drive Chorus There were days filled with thinking, nights with the drinking for a lost love that raged like a storm But how his eyes smiled when hed talk to a child the rough hands so gentle and warm His strong arms were brown where the long sleeves rolled down on his faded blue cotton shirt When times got hard hed go out in the yard and cuss away some of his hurt Chorus Now the gardens grown dusty, the handaxe lies rusty the doors banging hard in the wind Grandpas store is closed down, like most of the town and it wont be open again And the big white car sits out in the yard of the house he built solid and true But I see his eyes burning tonight like the stars in the sky he once knew Chorus 1981 Another Sundown Publishing Co

Rain resets the senses in the desert, with fewer ambient factors to impede flavors and smells

Homan is a former New York state police officer and former Border Patrol agent

Lucky for us, the Keep America Beautiful Cigarette Litter Prevention Program (CLPP) is making strides in educating the public about this issue and ensuring a cleaner tomorrow

You pull it up and you can tell the ancient atmosphere