Rushing.

Spring has come to the northern forest. 

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. 

Walpurgis Night.