The morning broke in silver mist,
With clouds hung low on pine,
The ridges wrapped in ghostly shawls
By hands no man could find.
The creek spoke soft through laurel roots,
Its voice both old and wise,
While gentle rain stitched earth to sky
Beneath the mourning skies.

The tin roof sang a steady hymn,
A rhythm slow and true,
Like Mamaw humming by the stove
While coffee softly brewed.
The woodsmoke curled in sleepy rings,
The hound lay by the door,
Content to hear the rain recite
Its thousand tales and more.

Each hollow wore a deeper green,
Each mossy stone would shine,
The ferns stood tall like churchyard choirs
In cathedrals built of pine.
The whip-poor-will held back his song,
The hawk stayed tucked away,
For every soul within the hills
Knew rain had claimed the day.

Old wagon ruts became small streams,
The gravel roads turned clay,
Yet no one cursed the weather’s hand
Or wished the clouds away.
For every drop that kissed the fields
Would feed the corn and beans,
Would wake the sleepy mountain roots
With promises unseen.

The fog climbed slow through chestnut oaks
Like spirits dressed in white,
It veiled the peaks from wandering eyes
Till nearly came the night.
Some swore the hills breathed easier then,
Their scars washed clean awhile,
As though the rain remembered them
And lingered with a smile.

So let the cities chase the sun,
Their hurried hearts made dry;
I’ll take a porch, a rocking chair,
And thunder rolling by.
For nowhere else does heaven seem
So close to earthly clay
As where the ancient mountains bow
To greet a rainy day.