Whispering Winds of Appalachia

by John Ellington

There is a quiet peace and a feeling of safety in the mountains. At moments when I felt the pull of the outside world, I could never find the strength to crawl out of the valleys myself. I am home in these hills. I belong to the rivers.

I always imagine brook trout to be female. Their vibrant beauty, graceful delicacy, and innocent sensitivity. Or maybe it’s because I think of her.

The sun is waiting to consume their mist, but they are at peace here. They wait for me. I place the freshly picked blooms upon the stones and sit, alone in the woods with my friends.

At that moment, another breeze came swirling through the forest and gently passed through my body. For a brief second, I thought I heard voices in the wind.

The brush strokes of God were laid upon the canvas of Appalachia in a way that made it impossible not to notice.

God was in the morning mist, the cool flowing water, the warming rays of sun, and in the movement of mountain air.

“Whispering winds. They aren’t ghosts, in a true sense—more like spirits. You hear them in the breeze, you feel them in the bark of a pine, you see them in that sunset.” He now moved his finger in the direction of the fading light. “They call to you. Everyone hears them in their own way, though most never listen or recognize them.”

Here in the quiet of prison I have finally realized the mystery of the whispering winds. They are voices of loved ones that have moved on, whose spirits live in the freedom of the mountain air. Sometimes their voices break through, longing for me to be with them. It is almost my time, Chris. I am going to be with them soon. We will all be waiting for you up there—or out there somewhere in the wild. When you are ready, come be with us again and maybe it’ll be like the old days. Until then, listen for me in the breeze.