In the holler where the laurel grows,
And the creek sings low through mossy stones,
There lives a kind of mountain spell
No book has learned and none can tell.

It rides the mist at break of day,
When ridgelines fade to shades of gray,
And hangs like silver on the pines
Where old-time whispers cross the vines.

The granny woman knows its name,
Though she won’t speak it just the same.
She gathers roots by moonlit glow,
Where bloodroot and wild ginseng grow.

The whip-poor-will calls after dark,
A hidden song, a mountain mark.
The owls reply from hemlock shade,
As ancient bargains still are made.

Some say the magic’s in the land—
In weathered rock and calloused hands.
In miners’ lamps and blackened coal,
In hymns that soothe a weary soul.

Some find it dancing in the fire,
That crackling, amber mountain choir,
Where stories passed from kin to kin
Keep all the old worlds living in.

It lingers where the cardinals fly,
Like scarlet sparks beneath the sky,
And follows every winding road
The mountain people call their own.

For Appalachian magic’s not
The kind that’s learned or sold or bought.
It’s faith and memory intertwined,
A stubborn heart, a steady mind.

It’s knowing spring will find the hills
Though winter tests them as it will;
And trusting roots buried deep below
Will bloom again when warm winds blow.

So if you wander through these lands,
Listen close and understand:
The oldest magic you’ll ever know
Lives in the mountains’ quiet glow.