Fog tumbles through the valley and
 settles upon a town
  the road keeps winding
 cattle slowing down.

Big Sandy swells beneath me
 weathered bridges stretch and strain
  the sky hangs low and heavy
 with whispers of the rain.

Rusted rigs lie silent
 where mountaineers are always free
  graves abandoned but not forgotten
 nearby crooked trees.

Alone upon West Virginia’s valley
 the Appalachians blessed this ground
  I chase the fog like shadows
 lost, I refuse to turn around.