A speaker sits in a quiet, wild place and slowly realizes how crowded it is. A spider quietly works behind them, a hidden stream trickles underground, and owls, coyotes, mice and squirrels fill the night. The line "You're never as alone as you think" sets the idea early, and the rest of the poem shows it. Loneliness softens into something close to companionship, even humor: the speaker cries only to answer the coyotes, and the whippoorwill's call becomes a "diatribe."
As dark falls, the mood shifts from cozy to eerie. Foxfire glows on dead trees, and the whistling squirrels sound like ghosts nobody can name. The worked green stone, still sharp enough to scrape a hide, brings in another presence: a person from long ago. The speaker feels awe and a little guilt, so they put it back, aware it may still belong to someone. The closing haiku, where roots seem to say the speaker's name "in Raven," suggests the place has been paying attention all along, and has begun to accept them.