Rake the Weed From the Bars

[Кіріспе] [Single high guitar harmonic, muted low chug cuts dead on beat four] [Two clipped palm-muted stabs, bass on the downbeats] [Drums enter; riff cycles] [Куплет 1] You called at one: “the raceway’s low.” I pulled my waders from the rack. The intake screen was packed with weed; Cold water pressed against my back. You stood beside the stocking chart, Still arguing about the date. I reached beneath the choking mesh. The fish were running short on air. [Қайырма] Hold that water moving through the night, Clear the teeth and let the current bite. Count them breathing, count them one by one; We don’t stock a stream till this is done. [Куплет 2] The rake caught fast on roots and leaves. I worked it loose by hand and pull. You said the trucks were booked for dawn; I said the raceway wasn’t full. The alarm kept marking every drop. Your pencil tapped the calendar. I hauled the black weed from the bars; The oxygen climbed, slow and hard. [Қайырма] Hold that water moving through the night, Clear the teeth and let the current bite. Count them breathing, count them one by one; We don’t stock a stream till this is done. [Guitar solo] [Куплет 3] By four, the current found its pace. The fry held steady near the flow. You folded up the stocking chart And asked me how soon we could go. I rinsed the screen and checked it twice. The morning slid across the tanks. No date gets written over breath; We earn the truck when water’s right. [Қайырма] Hold that water moving through the night, Clear the teeth and let the current bite. Count them breathing, count them one by one; We don’t stock a stream till this is done. [Аутро] Screen clear. Water holds. Not till they’re breathing. Not till they’re strong.