in this moment I see nearly sundown blue birds pirouetting into the crabapple thicket near the cinnamon-red fields where I am still as a silver snake coiled in frail grass liberally waving seed in orange breezes like ornaments burning in ripples over a field of textile while the cooling marine sky wraps its clear skin around me pressing the passing bird flight against my senses revealing that tomorrow everything new is new and again will be something else seemingly out of sequence from today except for common black parts banged down at intervals like bookends on the flitting shelf of time filling now the red apple trees with limbs fitful in dusk's filigree
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This poem is about a moment coming into existence, made up of all kinds of pieces. It speaks to the brief nature of its existence, a fleeting now, extendable to all life. Moments are so profoundly temporary. I sometimes perceive the world as a series of moments, and with the exception of sleep, represented as black parts in the poem, all of life is these moments falling out of both the surrounding environment and the internal impact of that environment, both working in tandem to produce the feelings and perceptions of the moment. And each moment fully alive in us also weighs on us and colors the next moment about to be. Thus a moment has existence within us if we apprehend it and its boundaries, allow ourselves to be stunned by the beauty of its immediacy, and understand the impact it might have on how we perceive and live in the natural world.