If one thing is as good as the next,
if, returning to the nest, the hawk finds
nothing changed though some infinitesimal
bit of mouse has become fledgling,
if time is measured mostly in breaths
until even they fade to nothing,
replaced by sunrise and sunset,
if all this is true, there’s room for
some small satisfaction at the movement
of air from the passing blade of the reaper,
having missed once more.
Maybe there’s nothing more than this
to immortality — the thin, movable wedge
between life and death.