Before the setting of the moon yet fore the Sun may rise again;
a pale light bathes the brief stilled land, a light that neither one may claim.
Lasting less than half the hour, it holds for all both loss and gain,
and in that window, past and present, dwells enigma; constant change.
The mouse that scurries to his nest, may grasp the nigh
None may know, but all will share, transition from the then to next,
some grasping frantic, frightened, lonely, some praying for a heartbeat left.
Just Thinking About It