She comes down the ridge
in smoke and ash,
with the wind twisting in her wake.
The preachers clutching their Bibles tight,
daddies drunk on blame and pride –
she’s seen ‘em all,
their crooked looks and lies.

She marked the place where decency died.
She spits and laughs,
a sound like breaking bones.
She set the woods to weepin’ wounds.
She speaks to stars,
and wakes the wolves from winter’s sleep.
She’s what they find when love turns blind,
she’s justice runnin’ with bare feet.

So nail your doors, and bless your kin,
and mind the trees that moan and lean,
for she’s the wrath of all that’s been,
and she don’t care who thinks her mean.