The Moment

He does not hang. He hovers….

     The Moment 
of Decision, but 
his choice is 
already made: suspended 
from nails we 
cannot see, sharp 
shadow stretched across 
concrete or rusted 
metal beams. 
     
            He 
does not hang. 
He hovers, golden 
wings raised, coming 
in for a 
landing, or a 
scoop of silvery  
fish — 		
     While his 
fisher-friends below strike
poses beside boats 
left idle, nets 
left lying limp 
along the ground: 
What next. What 
now. 
     The sky 
itself stalled between 
storm and muted 
light — Dawn or 
Dusk; you choose —
cross anchored in 
indecision.

     But now,
I have decided: 
the light — gold, 
azure, white — along 
the edge of 
sight is Dawn, 
halos the low 
brown hills with 
promise. 
     
     I choose 
to believe: Sunset 
is not where 
this story ends, 
turning from dark 
to light, and 
back to dark 
again.

(31 March 2026)