Chasing light like a bird,
skimming the tops
of a river at dusk,
hungry and hunting,
dipping its claws
into the barely visible
moment.

Searching for light
is not as clean
as a minnow slicing a path through water,
tapping out its morse code to the world,
but it’s as natural
as its death,
plucked in a moment and gone
not forever.

So far, the one
perfect light
I’ve caught
is that we are alive
and then we are not.
And the in-between
overflows its bookends.