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…