At dusk a white mist stirs above the hillock.
Banshee inhales deep as she awakes.
A vortex, slow, begins to prance about her.
Leaves of painted frost begin to shake.

With skill she molds and shapes a howling windsong
and trips the light with long and silvery hair.
Humming hymns, the leaves dance with her madness
as her breath, an icy quiver, fills the air.

Banshee warns of death with mewls that beckon.
Her chorus motions cries of sad lament.
Bone chilling screams articulate an echo,
of moanful tunes, but only transient.

Recounting tales she utters untold secrets.
In magnitude, the Dance of Leaves commune.
Hypnotic screams become the Banshee's weapon
beneath an eerie, late December Moon.