A cold and starry darkness moans
  And settles wide and still
Over a jumble of tumbled stones
  Dark on a darker hill.

An owl among these shadowy walls,
  Gray against the gray
Of ruins and brittle weeds, call
  And soundless swoops away.

Rustling over scattered stones
  Dancers hover and sway.
Drifting among their own bones
  Like webs of the Milky Way.

   Harry Behn