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
interrupted
only by the horned owl
Night subsides in
into morn
I breathe
the whole of it
between the hills
Catherine Eaton Skinner