A 12 AM, winter drive, under blankets of black sky
There'll be no sleep till Brisbane & I got exams, at 9
Cousin Dan drives while I sit tight in the passenger side
tapping my shoes, to the Higgs Boson Blues
We don't talk much, neither of us are the type
But we both know there's something sour in the sky tonight,
It follows in the rear-view and looms the road ahead
But I've got St Chris in my pocket, keeping us safe till morning's light
We pull in to a servo, for a Red Bull and a quick bite,
The baker's in early, working to dim lights
He takes bread from the oven with a split and a sigh,
while crows and owls perch outside and shriek through cedar pines
We press on as a storm rolls in through the dark
and the headlights cast patterns like veins on evergreen bark
through the branches and limbs that grow and reach out
to bring drowning rain down to kiss the ground
The rain pours hard and the windows fog
and streetlights dance through them like wisps in a bog
They whisper omens with the cold wind through the window
that Daniel cracks to have another smoke
The highway stretches on for close to eternity
like the forever hallway in a house of leaves
But we reach our destination around 4:30
and I let the last four hours wash like the rain over me
I dry myself off and fall into bed
with the hum of the tires still echoing in my head
and I lay there sinking, into the doona, thinking
maybe it's not us St Chris should've been protecting
The wisps are still here with me,
glowing faint, through the frosted windows of my room
Guiding me, gently, as I drift off to sleep,
promising, "those omens weren't meant for you"
