The Ridge Above the Holler

Morning climbed over the ridge,
slowly touching the woodland below.
Mist rested among the branches,
while creeks followed their winding courses.

I traveled along a narrow trail created by seasons,
past mountain laurel and fallen timber,
past places where deer moved at dawn
and ravens circled above the slopes.

The ground carried signs of change,
acorns scattered beneath oak limbs,
ferns rising after summer rain,
small streams carving their way through the hills.

I paused beside a creek beneath the canopy,
watching clear water move onward,
holding the memory of storms
and the patience of the land.

Above me, the ridge stood through the years.
It had known storms before my lifetime,
known winters before my journey,
known countless travelers seeking refuge.

The Appalachian highlands offered a lesson
through every season and every living thing.
A growing root, a running stream,
a morning mist across the holler.

When evening settled over the valley,
I followed the trail back home.
The mountains remained as they had always been,
steady through time and untouched by my passing.