Writer Between Worlds

Crows on a dying treetop, scattered 
on its bare branches before taking flight. 
Crickets in grass, loud, and reeds slowly slanting 
below blue mountains, crimson suns and clouds 
like cotton of the purest white. 

I take no photos and no hostages from this: 
I simply watch how the marvels explode 
on an organic retina that is 
as transient as they are. 
In this 
momentariness I find my abode.

And as I age, I find I don't 
desire to store 
any of it 
for future reference. Nope. 
I merely want to gaze in awe and live 
each fleeting moment 
to its end. 
Each one, 
as if it were my first. Reload.