Here in the cove at Killian Knob, as the evening comes, the full moon shining out over sweet Maggie Valley, while standing on my porch, and breathing in the crisp clean air, I heard over the singing of the creek the owl who made her home close by, and the hoo hoo hoo HOO hoo hoo hoo HOO . . . the lights in the valley below are just beginning to glow where leaves and growth have thinned and Owl will fly to find her supper, her beautiful head swiveling in gorgeous completions.
While standing on my porch, where every once in a while the loud smarting THWACK of a walnut from the walnut tree smacks the roof, sending small critters running, I said to the moon: hello, I've been waiting for you. The moon sent a moonbeam to touch my head and in that touch for that one small moment, I knew what it was all about, then it slipped away and I was once again just a woman without any answers standing on her porch in the coming dark.
There is mystery to the mountains, a knowledge hidden and secret and true. Bold and important they rise up as they have for long long and longer. And since their eruption up up up from the earth, they have since been weathered down, and trod upon, but never tamed, even when those who would try to tame them came calling.
And the woman who is me takes in the moments, standing on her porch, with Moon-shine spilling and Mountain and owl and valley and creek.