A giant shadow mars the night…
Crow weaves his darkness all around,
Beneath the Hunter’s Moon he flies
To terrorise the Dancing Ground.
Dark wings weave spells of dark and cold,
Yet far away from children’s cries
The gloom is pierced by shafts of light…
Spear-bright, the Silver Fox replies.
For none may blight the Dancing Ground,
The night is theirs, to dance and call
With flame and drumbeat, woven bright,
The birth of Winter from the Fall.
Crow spreads his wings against the flame
He will not flee the coming fight
But stands to wait for Silver Fox
Who wields the golden fire light.
And closer, now, the torches come,
The trees aflame with Summer’s death.
Their spirits join the shifting dance
As watchers wait with bated breath.
Crow challenges the Foxes’ drum,
With wings of night, he holds the scene
Illuminated by the flame
That paints the shadows on the green.
The Foxes bait the feathered fiend.
With measured pace and shining mask,
The Silver Fox moves silently,
Emerging to complete the task.
For none may mar the Dancing Ground
Nor add their darkness to the night,
Nor stand against the Silver Fox,
The wielder of the Staff of Light.
The Crow has fled, the dance begins,
To celebrate the season’s change…
Yet in the shadows danger lurks
With bone-white faces, cold and strange…