This poem appeared in Wingless Dreamer anthology                      Appalachian Roots                                                                                                                            A camp fire beneath an endless sky moonshine and misty eyes fox hounds baying in the distance as we sat silently and listened to the hounds hot on the trail beneath moonlights silver veil. A Kentucky fox hunt in the hollows us passing a jug for another swallow.A pleasure some have never known before;reflections of days which are no more.Telling stories of grandpa's grandpas and our kin and their lives in these hills way back when.How they came here from ole Virginny with a dream and only a few pennies to start a life among these hills  raising crops and tending to their stills.Clearing the land in the backwoods;stories we knew from our early childhood,passed down from generation to generation telling of their hard work and dedication.In cabins built beneath tall oak and beech grannies used the Lord's Book to teach the younguns how to read and write by the dim glow of candle light.Teaching simple words of truth to their bountiful youth;a life guided by belief and prayer instilling faith in their many heirs.That careworn Bible is still used today to guide us when we pray.Their Sundays were filled with hymns drifting on the warm Summer winds,sung in churches ages old built by kinfolks so very long ago,standing strong yet today;steadied by the strength of faith.Hell fire and brimstone sermons by preachers who were determined to save the many weary souls of those gathered among their fold.Where gentle pastures on rolling knolls were grazed by mares and their foals.Where plows pulled by a team of mules gave to dirt its just renewal. Tobaccer hanging in weathered barns dotting the many family farms; providing cash for hard working souls enabling them to reach their goals of raising younguns among the hills and pay their never ending bills.Cane bottom chairs made with pride by great great grandpa before he died from hickory whittled by hand;with narrow sturdy bark strands shaping the seats criss-cross pattern woven 'neath the glow of a coal oil lantern.Hand carved mortises in the spindles to hold the sturdy back slats in the middle.Heirlooms handed down from father to son and cherished by each and every one.Our crops are planted from treasured seeds passed down to meet our needs carried here by those who came to a new land and knew the trials and hardships first hand of building life among a rugged terrain;those who withstood the hard work and pain,and laid the paths for us to tread.Those heirloom seeds have kept us fed.for a hundred years or longer now I know with new seeds saved from crops we sow.We are a people who stand tall and proud among tall hills which caress the clouds.We are nestled in hollows beneath an azure sky and on the banks of rivers flowing free and wide.We are the descendants of small mining towns;though the coal is almost gone, we are still around.We take pride in our Appalachian roots and value the rewards of our pursuits.Those roots grow deep and strong nurtured by the heritage of those now gone.