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I, Raven
sit high
in the grayness
of the pine

The sighs
of the wind
softly intersect
the valley

The waters reflect
the cycles of seasons
as the moon
rests gently
on the eastern hill

I hear
as if a part of me
the life of the dark

The dogs
speak of the day’s news
only by the horned owl

Night subsides
into morn

I breathe
the whole of it
between the hills


Catherine Eaton Skinner