Dave Bonta's two-line poem drops us beside a creek before sunrise, where we can't see much but can hear everything. A raccoon turns over a rock, probably hunting for something to eat, and the poem claims that this small act "lowers the pitch" of the water's sound.
The surprise is in that verb. Pitch belongs to music, so the creek suddenly becomes an instrument, and the raccoon becomes someone adjusting it, the way you might loosen a string. The rock was shaping the flow, and moving it changes the note. It's a neat observation, and it feels like something a person only notices by standing still and listening closely.
The speaker never says how they feel, but the attention itself tells us. They seem patient, quiet, and delighted by a tiny event. The mood is hushed and intimate, with a gentle humor in picturing a wild animal as a tuner. It leaves you wanting to go outside and listen.