There will come a dawn when, like trees in June, the Appalachian people will reclaim what can only so long be denied.
On that morn dew will soften the moon and up from dark hollers they will rise, moving with the persistence of tendrils reaching towards light and floating like burning fog along rocky spines and inclines to the tops of the mountains.
They will not be thwarted.
Like the ancient blizzards of childhood they will cover the scars of greed with a vision of crystalline purity. Even the dinosaurs and yellow caterpillars of the fossil age will be buried beneath the muffling quiet of their accumulation.
All will rest. Life will be a slow melting.
And after many springs and much rust no one will remember when the land was made slave to red law and lust.