The Sunday Blanket

[Chorus]
The Toutle River is a silver thread
Stitching the valley to its watershed
And the mountain breathes a sigh of steam
The final stitch in a Sunday seam

[Verse 1]
At the Timberline Motel, the sign reads 'Vacancy'
Mary-Anne hangs sheets, a pale geography
They snap in the wind, a clean and lonesome sound
She smooths the worn linen, doesn't turn around

[Chorus]
The Toutle River is a silver thread
Stitching the valley to its watershed
And the mountain breathes a sigh of steam
The final stitch in a Sunday seam

[Verse 2]
Down on the bank, a man who knows the grain
Sands a piece of driftwood, erasing the rain
The dust in the sun hangs fine as powdered bone
He feels the tremor, thinks he's just alone

[Bridge]
And the Weyerhaeuser logger calls his wife from a payphone booth
Says, "Fill the car with gas, honey, that's the God's honest truth."
The gray is getting thicker, a blanket being spun
To darn the hole where we'll lose the sun

[Outro]
It's May seventeen, nineteen-eighty.
The quiet's getting heavy.