You can drive up from the ocean and the road curves hard and steep.
The oak trees disappering as the houses start to creep.
Up the sweeping fields of sourgrass, the sagebrush stay aloof.
They're carried to these sacred hills on leather boots and hooves.
And what will you tell the young men who are quietly conversing,
The sun sinking low on the images they are commonly nursing?
There's no discussing consequence