Thirteen wild geese cut through the night,

Feathers dark as the waning light,

On wings that carve the winter’s breath,

They skim the edge of life and death.

Through barren trees and fields of frost,

They soar where life and warmth are lost.

The earth below lies still, asleep,

In icy silence, dark and deep.

They pass by stones in shadowed rows,

Old markers veiled in moonlit snows.

The wind, a whisper, cold and clear,

A ghostly hymn for those who hear.

No stars to guide, no fire’s grace,

Just hollow woods and empty space.

They fly as one, a Witch’s sign,

Bound to some strange, unseen line.

For who would count them in the sky,

The number veiled in lore’s old lie?

Thirteen souls in midnight’s thrall,

Bound by winter’s spectral call.

So let them pass, fierce and free,

Thirteen shadows in harmony.

Wild geese, dark wings against the cold

A spell of beauty, fierce and old.