The beam of the October orange moon, the orb, rising above the harvested fields, cornstalks, dry, broken, such rattling of bones from a summer life, candlelight yellow eyes of owls hooting, in their Gothic greetings to a lone walker, who, with haste, is passing by a churchyard cemetery of bygone, cracked tombstones. What spirits stir in their frigid graves this very night? As silent ravens perching in trees of black gnarled branches in such a cold, cloudless sky, remind the apprehensive youth the dead should never be forgotten in whispers, but spoken in memories, as a chill causes him to turn up his collar, his breath frosty, as someday, he knew, he too will pass through, as his blood no longer would course, and he will be searching for, his place, his forever, in eternity's mystery.