A dark shadow swallows up the moon,
Foggy fingers probing through the pines,
Icy claws rake your oilskin slicker,
Chills run down your spine.
A drum beat? Or your own heart?
A warrior’s death song, rides the breeze,
As your pony seeks, the ink black trail,
Winding through the trees.
A whole village lost, long ago,
The Chilcotin people don't come here.
You ridiculed their superstition,
You laughed away their fear.
They tried their best to warn you,
You’ve scoffed and called them fools.
Now you’re alone in Graveyard Valley,
Where the Windego still Rules.
Other articles by Mike Puhallo