. . . and the little log house in the cove at killian knob watched its wild wolf woman drive away, saw as she paused at the bottom of the gravel drive, buried her face in her hands and wept, and then as she wiped those tears away and firmed her mouth in resolve, and soon was out of the little log houses sight. The little log house could not would not let her go, could not would not bear it, so it called forth the mystical mountain mists, and down the mists swirled from the ridgetops, and pushed up from the North Carolina soil, and slipped from under ancient noble rock, and rose up wet from the rushing creek. The mists worled and sworled and quickly and thickly and thoroughly covered the little log house--and the little log house was never ever seen again. Without its wild wolf woman, it was not to be. Yet! Some say the magical mists pressed the little log house into the tiniest of molecules, and carried it on a wilded wind to the wild wolf woman, where it then entered her body. And the little log house, so very tiny, lodged in her heart where it would stay as long as she walked the earth. For they belonged to each other, as it is whispered by the mountains, who are wise and knowing and would never lie about such things. A love that never ever dies: that little log house and that wild wolf woman.
Posted on: Sun, 18 May 2014 04:09:14 +0000
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