Mabry Mill rolls under the weight of the water racing through the flume. Deep in the trees, you secretly make your moonshine, your dew of the mountain. You hear the water tumbling far in the distance, the fire crackles at your feet. Wait patiently. Play your six-stringed guitar; hum a tune that has been sung in these parts before. The song is the breath that drifts through the hollows of the hills. Those who have gone before hide behind the trees, waiting to emerge at dusk when they can join in the song. The daylight fades. God walks by, sits down and shares a drink with you. He has a sip, or two, of your secret labor hidden there in the trees. You begin to sing a song that has never been sung in these parts before. The trees bend a creaking ear to listen, and the ghosts already know the tune. Slowly, the hollows draw in.