tonight we turn our attention to the mountains—  

the old mountains, the Appalachian spine,  

where the ridges rise like the backs of sleeping beasts  

and the hollows hold stories that were old before the first cabin was built,  

stories whispered through pine needles and creek water,  

stories that do not care whether you believe them.  

And in those stories walks a figure carved from bone and hunger,  

a witch or a specter or something that remembers being both,