Foggy mornin' in the mountains

The fog is thick, as if the clouds dropped down to wrap misty arms around the mountains an' fill the hollers to the brim. Darkness latches onto the fog an' pushes hard agin the on-comin' day.

The thick damp mist muffles the sounds of dawn. Birds are feather fluffed an' quiet, waitin' for the sun that still hides behind the clouds. Roosters wander out of the hen house damp an' bedraggled, not willin' yet to crow an' call in the dawn.

Big Ben clocks ring harsh in the not yet day, unwindin' as they cry "rise an' shine". Ol' men reach out an' lift the clock to stare with sleep sandy eyes, seein' it ain't yet sunrise, thinkin' Big Ben must be lyin', must be wrong.

But mantle clocks an' that big ol' number 18 sized pocket watch, coin silver case an' 17 jewel sure both speak the same truth. Mornin' has come, no sun has risen, but mornin' has come home to the hills.

As they rise up, womenfolks sit on the side of the bed, gatherin' their long hair into buns, pullin' strands tight an' under tortoise shell combs. Aprons on, they head for the kitchens to throw kindlin' into cook stoves, light a fire, wash up an' get breakfast together.

The menfolks are more verbal as they stand, groan moanin' an' unsteady with mornin' aches to pull on overalls, drag on worn out socks and slowly tie up scuffed brogans. In cabins up an' down the creek they wander to the kitchen, wash up in the pans of water warm an' waitin' for them, grab a sup of water from the dipper before they lift the pail, head for the well to draw fresh water an' then to the barn to feed the mules, milk the cows an' begin the day's work.

It is mornin' in the mountains, hidden by the fog, not delayed.

Rainy Mornin' in the Mountains

Down yonder in the mountains, deep in the holler
A right smart drive from any little ol' town
Little ol' cabins sit coveyed up in a wide spot
Not much more than a couple fields an' a creek
Sittin' in the flat place made as two hills run together.

It is early mornin' an' the mist still clings tight
Seems to wrap tendrils around the trees an' weeds
Writhes an moves an' reaches out here an' yonder
Hangin' on a might longer since it is rainin'.

Soon enough a weak an' ancient sun will rise
Tryin' to punch through the mist, rain an' clouds.
Birds will wake up an ruffle their damp feathers
Roosters, hoarse from the damp will crow a scratchy "cock-a-do".

Cows in beat up an' broken down barns are gonna beller
Hopin' someone will be out soon to milk.
Ol' dogs will rise out of the dust under them cabin porches
Shake an' look out at the rain only to drop down again.

 Lights are soon to come on an' little streams of smoke
Will start to rise from chimneys as coals are poked
An' big ol' potbelly stoves are stoked.
It is a rainy ol' mornin' in the mountains.

Folks are just a' risin', breakfast just a' cookin'.
Ol' men will be movin' slow this mornin'.
Bones just achin', feet a' hurtin' as they pull on their shoes.
But they is chores to be done, stock to feed.

It is a rainy ol' wonderful, blessed mornin' in the mountains.
Y'all come home.  Come on home.

Dark and Damp Morning

It is a morning that is still dark and damp
The air is so very cool for a Summer day.
In the darkness there is no birdsong
They've not yet awakened to brighten the day.
 In the distance there is the sound of traffic
Men and women already rushing from home.
Minds wrapped around all they must accomplish
But it is a morning that is dark and damp.
 The world is still quiet, nature still rests.
The grass clings to the drops of rainwater
That so freely fell during the short summer night
Soon the sun will burn away the excess.
But the grass drinks quickly and deeply in the dark.
 Lights are blinking on in distant windows
Coffee is surely brewing, children are being roused.
Loud yellow buses will command the roads.
Little ones will appear hump-backed in the distance
Shouldering backpacks and talking loudly
Hiding their nervousness on the second day of school.

But it is still a dark and damp morning.
Nature still sleeps, waiting for the sun to slowly climb
Inch by inch into the empty eastern sky.

Muddled Dawn

It is early dawn and the day is yet defined
The eastern horizon is covered in a mist
That has muddled the first attempts at morning.
Purple, yellow orange and red swirl together
Behind that opaque curtain in the distance
As if they are beauty contestants
Vying for the title of Queen of the Day.
As I sit and wonder about the winner.
Which shall introduce the wonderment?
The joy of a new day rolling along 
Toward me through the misty morn.
Flashing finally brilliant and bright.
Which shall win the prize and glow
In the eastern sky
Purple, yellow, orange or red?

Muggy Morning

The promise of dawn is already summer muggy
Trees rustle with an autumn dryness
Sinking their roots deeper into parched earth
The birds that will sing good morning are asleep still
Savoring the infrequent gusts of wind
The first hints of morning are almost unwelcome
It promises to be a hot, uncomfortable day
A farmer rises early, unable to sleep
Hitches up his overalls and steps outside
Scanning the horizons for any sign of rain
His hopes of a storm, for a cooling mist
Sink low with each blink of his eyes.
It is summer, hot, uncaring summer.

Early Morning Passage

Even as I pass through quickly
In the dark and misty dawn
The hills call to me, sing to me
The engine races in my old truck
My heart races in my chest
Glimpses of hollers, left and right
Catch the corners of my still sleepy eyes
Old dogs rise from the yards
Of a dozen sturdy houses
They look at me as if to say,
"Where y'all been so long?
Why run off so fast?
Can't ye come on up
And sit a spell?"









 Stephen Hollen is an award winning storyteller, humorist and Mark Twain Impersonator living in Beavercreek, Ohio.  He performs and tells stories in Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, West Virginia, Michigan and throughout the USA. 

Wet Dog Day

It is a dark and dampy, misty morning
A smelly wet dog, flea bitten day
Thunder cracker-boomer-banger
Rumble an' grumbly sort of start
Snuggle buggle under quilts an' covers
Hide your head an' roll right over day
A day for fires burnin' slow like,
Woodstoves cherry reddish kinda morn.

Misty Morn

The morning is overcast
The air aburden with thick dew.
The birds fly slowly
Feathers laden with dampness.
Even the sounds of morning
Are quieted by the wet air.

Waiting for Morning

Misty spring morning
Lays heavy and cold
Threats of frost
Murmur round the weeds
Spring peepers are quiet
Waiting for warmth.

Misty morning

The first day of September
Brings a promise of fall
A promise of crisp mornings.

It is a glimpse of quilt
snuggling

Of woolen shirts,
flannel and sweater
Weather.

The first day of September whispers
Promises of orange, yellow and red leaves
Decorating the trees, glorious maples, stately oaks, sassy burning bush.


Fall is lurking,
Hiding in the mornings
Crawling around like a night beast
Seeking to devour summer.

You can see it in the mist
That gathers round the houses
Lingers longer each day
As sunrise sleeps in just a little longer.

Fall is glorious, a cool and calculating lover.