A leaf,
Brittle, dying,
Trembles in the chill air
The wind howls,
Startling the new snow.
The stars burn,
In the black velvet sky.
Sit we here,
Elven hunters.
Silent, watchful,
Beneath the sleeping trees.
Your eyes are bright,
In the light of the hungry fire.
Now standing,
Back to back,
Eager for the kill.
The silver moon glints on your blade.
My bow draw taught,
Arrow made ready.
Awaiting some signal,
Other than the wind,
And the chanting leaves.
--- M.S. Faour