Confetti Promotions

Where am I in Stokes County?
I hide where a quieter road runs north,
Where fewer maps are drawn,
A trail begins where gravel sleeps
And leads explorers on.
Down, down, down the wooden stairs,
Where many steps you’ll go,
Your knees will learn the price you pay
To reach the falls below.
A silver curtain crashes loud
Into a waiting pool,
Where brave ones test the mountain’s chill
Though summer burns and rules.
Beside my veil, a tiny cave—
For little lives, not you,
And if you whisper near my walls,
My echo answers too.
The ones with lenses know me well,
They come when light is gold,
To catch my roar, my mist, my stone,
A thousand times retold.
Find the steps, the road, the sound—
Follow the falling calls.
I wait below, where thunder sleeps.

Where am I in Stokes County?
Where the Sauratown range lifts one last wrinkle from the Piedmont’s rolling back,
and quartzite teeth catch the morning like old fire.
I hear water before I see it—
a silver ribbon slipping down ledges,
braiding itself through stone older than memory,
cool breath rising from a shaded hollow
where mist writes its name on my skin.
Above me, the county’s high place keeps watch—
not a peak of the west, but a stubborn summit,
standing where the hills remember how to be mountains.
From there, hawks draw slow circles
over ridges that run like the backs of sleeping animals,
over forests stitched with laurel and pine,
over a land that tilts from mountain toward plain.
Long before trails were carved and signs were raised,
the Saura walked these ridges,
knew the springs that never dried,
the rock walls that held the day’s last warmth,
the hidden mouth in the stone—
a cave that kept its secrets in cool darkness,
where footsteps echo like distant thunder
and stories stay longer than people.
I follow the sound of falling water
to a place where the stream loosens its grip on the mountain,
spilling in white laughter over patient rock,
pooling in a basin clear enough to hold the sky.
Fern and moss lean close to listen.
The air tastes like iron and leaf and time.
So where am I in Stokes County?
Somewhere between the last mountains and the first hills,
between stone and water,
between what is named and what is only known
by the way the ground rises,
by the way the river falls,
by the way the old paths still remember
who walked them first.
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Where am I in Stokes County?

I hide my mouth in a sandstone grin
Above the river that whispers below
Found by those who climb, not those who rush
I watch the valley but never go

I am named for those who chose the Crown
When tempers burned and lines were drawn
Loyal to kings across the sea
While neighbors swore a different bond

They say some waited in my shade
When coats turned red and rumors flew
Not rebels sworn to liberty
But men who held the old world true

I am not deep, but I am enough
For a fire, a breath, a guarded hour
My walls remember hushed debate
And loyalty’s uneasy power

I face the wind, not village square
I keep my counsel carved in stone
The cliffs stand watch, the hawks pass over
While history argues on its own

No treasure sleeps inside my ribs
No flags, no bones, no victory cry
Just the weight of standing with a crown
When a new nation passed nearby

Name me if you know these hills
This rock, this choice, this fractured time
What cave looks out from Hanging Rock
Near Danbury’s ridge, half fact, half sign

Where am I in Surry County?

I greet the morning before the town
Turn my face where the sun steps up
Not toward the famous stone everyone seeks
But to the nearer rise that stands in its way

I watch a mountain without seeing it
Its shadow taught me where to look
A greater name waits just beyond my sight
While a smaller crown holds my gaze

I stand dressed in timber and promise
Lifted high above Shoals Road
My windows drink the eastern light
My doors open to quiet resolve

Behind me lie the names of faith and time
Rows of voices finished with prayer
Granite whispers of lives well lived
And waits with patience for the rest of us

Travelers pass me chasing a landmark
They miss the lesson hidden plain
Sometimes the truest view of a mountain
Is knowing it stands just beyond

What place am I
That worships before the summit
Faces the dawn
And keeps its memory rooted in the hill

Where am I in Stokes County?

I sit where the pavement flinches
and steps back from the river.
No gate, no sign asking why—
just boards, water, and quiet agreement.

Paddles arrive soft as questions,
reeds answer with a green wing’s lift.
Upstream, laughter drifts.
Downstream, the current remembers.

I am not the river itself,
only the place where you meet it.

Where am I in Stokes County?

I’m a road with a borrowed name,
Not a mouse, not a song,
I wind where fingers turn purple
And summer lasts long.

Hanging Rock watches quiet,
A ridge thick, dark, and sweet,
You won’t find me by rushing—
You taste me under your feet.

Where am I in Surry County?

I am a wound that never bleeds
Cut deep into a mountain’s side
Men lowered themselves into my mouth
And lifted cities out

I have no river
Yet ships have sailed from me
No rails beneath my floor
Yet I have traveled farther than most men ever will

My walls remember hammers
Before they knew the sound of engines
My dust settled into courthouses
Grave markers
Steps worn smooth by time

I look like absence
But I am weight
I look like quiet
But I have spoken in capitals

You have passed me without seeing me leave
You have stood on me without knowing my name

Where am I?