backyard shaman

white pine's crow,
self's sacred shadow
from his perch, I watch
my simple scratches
in the dirt
with my eyes, he sees
his onyx, feathers skirr
rise from the bough
my voice, now, unleashes
his fiercely-pitched cry
he whispers, from my throat,
an otherworldly reply
when him I run
my legs he swings
when me he flies,
I am the wings
our language has no sound
our thoughts no shape
our spirit no bounds
we are the dream
and the awakening