Squinting at the swollen skies, the singer tries to remember the words to some ancient lament he first heard years ago in the Delta, on the eve of the hanging. Shrouded in silent darkness she was leaning against the crippled magnolia behind the county courthouse, wailing underneath her breath as he passed by to get some tobacco. Struck to the marrow by the defiant dignity of the tune, he stood motionless for minutes to watch and listen. She probably never noticed him, blankly staring in the distance and repeating the few simple lines over and over like some spell that would leave the land cursed forever. Reports of the muddy river rising and people flying from their homes now suddenly brought it all back to him. The singer draws a long breath and grabs the few things he will need where he is going. The battered Martin, couple of dollar bills, a worn volume of poetry, hookah, custom suit, black cat bone. He lies down fully dressed, drifting into dreamless uneasy sleep. Crack of dawn and he is on his way past the kudzu covered fence lines to catch the early Illinois Central. For a split second, the singer feels the pain of loss and defeat strike him like lightning, but he forces himself not to look back.