Of chance, of luck, of all the signs,
we teeter near disaster despite the odds—
and we enhance them chasing passion
like butterflies, like all good humans.
Always the ambush, I have lain in wait
for quail, for the illusive young buck,
for greenheads circling beneath gray fog
and forgot to fire or decided not
to disturb such grace, to pick and pluck.
What is it then we hunger for
more than living, or giving life
another chance to sweep us up?