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

With skill she molds and shapes a howling windsong.
She 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 with wails of death that beckon.
Her music motions cries of sad lament.
Bone chilling screams articulate an echo
of moanful melodies, but transient.

Telling tales she utters untold secrets.
In magnitude, the dancing leaves commune.
Hypnotic screams supplant her surreal weapon
beneath an eerie, late December Moon.