Down From the Mountain

She came from the mountains. Horny were her hands and strong was her back. In the deep lush valleys she made peace with the black bears and the moths. Her cabin was of white pine and at night after much wine it flew back to the mountaintops. Can a grown woman ever stop being a little girl? Seems that after a bottle she wept like one, seems like she got up from her wicker chair and danced like one. The moths circled her and the bears growled along to the songs of the high winds. Did she grow old or young? Travelers tell of a maiden with golden eyes and graceful form one who roamed the backwoods and could be seen after a jug of Tennessee whisky fell from their lips. Like all such tales truth walks away smiling into the sweet graves of heaven where all myths live on.