Ephemera

Ideas are flies...or birds that visit the yard but once a year. In flocks or singly, sharp against snow. A flare of colour in bare branches. A visitation. Note to head to scribble down bones. Then life intrudes. The grocery list, chores. To do or not to do. And hours later, when the day settles...what was that lightning flash? That tiny feathered thing that flitted, never touching down? The tiny beating heart of a story. The gizzard of an essay. A throat pulsing with song--swallowed. The ghost of a thought scratching the mind's lens. Focus, focus. Too late. Gone.