Should you think to look for me
some day after I have gone
the grave is not where I shall be,
of that you can depend upon.

Why would you hope I would be bound
to bones and dessicated flesh
mouldering in the cold dark ground
where the winds never blow fresh?

Look for me in a chill sunset
at the end of a cold winter day
when the moon has not quite risen yet
to announce the end of day.

Or look about in early morn
as the sun wipes sleep from glowing eye
just as the day is being born.
Listen hard, I'll be nearby.

Anywhere the trees grow tall
and whippoorwills repeat their name;
where people seldom walk at all
and rolling hills are filled with game.

Hear me whisper through the wind,
smell muscadines upon my breath.
My lack of life won't be my end,
I'll still be around after my death.