The evening wind blows cold
As the breath of the frost giants.
Just overhead there is a sound like the rushing of crows' wings.
Can it be a coven of witches has flown over these woods?
On any other night,
You would probably swear
That there was no such thing as a witch―
At least, not the kind that streaks through the sky
On a broomstick with guttering taper and billowing cloak.
But this is no ordinary night;
It is the thirtieth of April,
The very eve of May.