The Legend of Mossy Brooks

They say he was born in the smoke of a campfire nobody remembers lighting,
bare feet tough as old tires, hair full of burrs, and eyes that knew the truth before paperwork got hold of it.

Mossy Brooks, they call him.
Once a myth, now a rumor with mileage.

He left the woods not because they found him,
but because he got tired of watching fenced-in people argue about freedom.

He’s been seen thumbing the two-lanes, sign in hand:
NOTHING ASKED. NOTHING TOLD.

Wearing a shirt that says:
I BELIEVE IN ME

He won’t ride with anybody who needs proof before making room.

He rides with night-shift waitresses, flat-tired saints, truckers hauling secrets, old men with coffee breath, and women who keep a packed bag by the door and don’t owe you a reason.

He leaves notes on diner napkins nobody admits to reading twice.

He leaves muddy footprints on church steps, and once stole a MoonPie from a vending machine that had it coming.

He smells like cedar, rain, peanut butter, and trouble trying to act right.

So if you see him standing by the roadside,
don’t ask for proof.

No interviews. No autographs. No damn podcast.

Just pull over, clear the passenger seat,
and let the legend ride.

Some things just need a cracked window, a full tank of gas,
and somebody strange enough to believe them.