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