There is no schedule
for a moment,
no planning
for the now—
it’s just

a bird of prey
on the branch
of the silvermoon
tree inviting
your rapt attention.

Notice it
twitch, scratch,
crane its head.
Notice life
pulsing through it.

Each moment
is not a heavy log
to be stacked
in a cord of
wet wood.

Each moment
is a hawk,
and alive.

It fluffs
ombre feathers
flaps twice
and swoops
toward earth

before rising
past rooftop
and treetop
into the silvery sky.