Woodall Mountain

Way down in Mississippi, barely a hill

Way down in Mississippi
Over by that muddy river
On top of the hill we snuggled.
Doubting the title ‘mountain.’
At 806 feet
Little Woodall,
Like a beacon called us.

Made six feet taller,
Our seat on Jeep roof,
Under the stars,
Nearer the ghosts of that war,
Than to the modern world,
Aims at a long love.
In the Mississippi night,
No one loves Woodall like I love you.