Late at night, the maiden fair
Leans out her window.
Icy, crystal-laden air
Numbs the lungs within her chest
And steals away her breath.
Three rings around the moon
The maiden sees
And imagines witch voices in the night
Canting tales of death and fright
That lunar circles foretell.
The voices are but the winter winds
That swirl and swell
Among the trees
Yet they fill her heart with dread,
Provoking vampire images in her head.
She sees again the deer she saw that day
Sprawled dead on the highway.
A phantom shadow shrouds the moon,
Staining black the hill.
Then shines the moon anew, ringed still.