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The number of burials would be hard to estimate because this site had not been kept as had the other.
Then, the sun began kissing the brow of Fork Mountain to our west, signaling it was time we begin our trek back down the trail.
Again passing the now familiar scenes which had been pointed out by Robert on our way up, and fording old Piney at three points. We tried to imagine another time when old wagon wheels banged and rattled along this ancient path. Farm hands returning home from a long days work.
Perhaps seeing the glow of lamp light from the windows of neighbors windows as eventide was coming. Smoke from the chimneys gently swirling upward in the chilly eve, scenting the air with assurance of the warmth of hearth and home. Supper being prepared and evening chores being completed. The bright glimmer of the moon rising above the ridges causing long shadows in the darkening vales and little mirror reflections in the pools of the Piney.
Way up in the hollow there comes the faint hooting of an owl. Other nocturnal creatures began stirring as a deer lopes across the meadow where haystacks resembling tee pees stand ready for the coming winter’s feeding.
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