Amy Carol Webb: Music

• MP3 short clip, hi-fi play (broadband)
• MP3 short clip, lo-fi play (modem)

This is where it started – this tradition of framing Florida’s history, humanity and habitat in song -- with Will McLean, Florida’s “Black Hat Troubadour.” With this song, Will calls forth our ancestors. In this song I can hear mine. We recorded part of it in the Acoustic Music Productions studio and finished it one breezy evening on Annie Wenz’s screen porch just off the Gulf. ACW: Guitar, vocals • Annie Wenz: Native American frame drum, Slovakian fujara & Native American flutes.

My soul is a hawk
I am but returned from the place the Indians call “Land where the wind is born”
In the quiet and lonely spaces of the upper skies soar I
The beauty of Florida below me as thermal air currents
Send their songs through my wing feathers
And I float in ever-widening circles
Yellow eyes piercing in rapture the blues, the golds, the orange and faint pinks of sunset
And I see in the far, far distance my haven
The majestic old dead tree on whose limbs I find
My soul is a hawk

Where the darkstream waters run
Almost stranger to the sun
Ghostly dancers, early morn
Paying homage to green corn
Seminole, seminole

Bitter hatreds, they do fade
No more war cries in the glade
Basket weavers you have turned
Many a white man’s ways you’ve learned
Seminole, seminole

Seminole, you noble race
There is honor in your face
You did never lose your stand
This is still your golden land
Seminole, seminole