The morning mist still hugged the pines,
Like old ghosts dressed in silver lines.
The whippoorwill had just gone still,
As dawn climbed slow above the hill.
I turned the key, the engine spoke,
Its thunder stirred the sleeping oak.
The gravel danced beneath each tire—
A mountain horse made out of fire.
Up old coal roads long left behind,
Where moss has claimed what men once mined,
Through rhododendron thick and green,
Past places few have ever seen.
The creeks laughed hard beneath the wheels,
Splashing boots with mountain zeal.
Each muddy hole, each rocky grade,
A challenge that the ridges made.
The wind would steal my very breath,
Yet carried scents of pine and death—
Old chestnut logs, wild laurel bloom,
And stories whispered through the gloom.
A hawk wheeled high above the ridge,
While deer slipped quiet through the sedge.
A fox looked up with amber eyes,
Then vanished like Appalachian lies.
The trail grew narrow, steep, and wild,
Untouched since I was but a child.
Its ruts were carved by storms and years,
By coal trucks, hunters, hope, and tears.
Atop the mountain I cut the motor.
Silence came a little slower.
No traffic hummed, no sirens cried—
Just heaven spread from side to side.
The valleys folded soft below,
Their rivers winding deep and slow.
Church steeples pierced the morning haze,
Smoke curled through hollers old with age.
I thought about the ones before,
Who walked these ridges, poor but sure.
With axes sharp and faith held tight,
They carved their days from mountain light.
Though engines now replace the mule,
The mountain keeps its ancient rule:
Respect the trail, respect the land,
And leave no scar from human hand.
So when the setting sun burns red
And paints the clouds like embers spread,
I’ll ride once more where wild things stay,
Until the mountains call one day.
For every trail’s another hymn,
Where earth and sky meet at the rim.
And every mile my tires have known
Has made these ancient hills my home.
