A sudden shatter in the silver air, A ragged shadow on the frosted pine. The raven drops a heavy, watchful stare, A dark observer on the boundary line. He knows the secrets that the valley keeps, Where the water freezes and the bedrock sleeps. Oh, Poe cries out against the shifting white, A jagged echo in the silent wood. He brings a message from the edge of night, A sudden truth, if only understood. He weaves between the branches and the frost, A living compass for the things we’ve lost. I hear the rhythm in his heavy wing, The ancient omen in his sudden flight. The hidden answers that the currents bring, Beneath the auroras in the bitter night. The raven watches from the timberline, And etches mysteries by grand design. From Healy’s edge down to the final bend, Where Dutch Road settles in the heavy snow. He is the wild and the faithful friend, A ragged sentinel for you and Joe. He cries a warning and he cries a song, To tell the archive where the years belong. So let his voice ring down the mountain spine, A crack of obsidian against the gray. We trace the transits and the hidden sign, And write it down before it fades away. When the ground shifts under what we know, The raven calls, and we will not let go.
