Harlan, Harbinger of the Hills

Dawn mist settled on the meadows, dew chills the orchard rows,

Cicadas fade as sunrise fades where Virginia creeper grows.

Sycamore shadows whisper, threading secrets at the bend—

Could be just the rippled current, or Harlan drifting in again.

Ghost of rain on willow branches, Shenandoah’s banks run cold,

Mockingbirds fall silent as mimosa petals fold.

Foxes pause in tangled fence line, where honeysuckle climbs—

Harlan travels softly, old stories on his mind.

Stone fences line the rolling pasture, woodsmoke in morning air,

Tulip poplar canopies filter light with gentle care.

Never seen, but always felt—a presence drawing near,

As creek-bed pebbles stir when evening settles here.

He’s the hush before thunder echoes down the Creek,

The shiver in pond water and the language coyotes speak.

When the clouds gather heavy, and the barn doors start to strain—

If Harlan lingers near, the town prepares for rain.

Horses toss their heads, first cool breaths of winter breeze—

Harlan glides beside the Shenandoah, rustling through the leaves.

Swallows arc above blackboard fences, children stare along the lane,

Sun slips behind old apple trees, memories sweet as rain.

Honeysuckle leans by driveways, dogwoods guard the yards,

Hydrangea heads in faded blue watch dusk behind the barns.

Sometimes only river mist or shadow figures in the fog,

Sometimes just a feeling, the pause when crickets stop.

No steeple, post, or barbed wire marks the lines you cross at night—

Limestone, creaking barns, memory pooling in twilight.

He moves where light grows softer and the creek begins to part—

Not malice, just mystery, rooted deep in every heart.

He’s the hush before thunder echoes down the creek,

The shiver in pond water and the language coyotes speak.

Whippoorwill in twilight hush, honeysuckle in the shade,

Harlan slips into the evening mist as summer starts to fade.

He moves where light grows softer and the creek begins to part—

Not malice, just mystery, rooted deep in every heart.

He’s the hush before thunder echoes down the creek,

The shiver in pond water and the language coyotes speak.

Whippoorwill in twilight hush, honeysuckle in the shade,

Harlan slips into the evening mist as summer starts to fade.