This arrangement of their molecules is sliding apart
Like sand dusting down an eggtimer’s crystal throat.
They’ll come to an abrupt halt & form a tiny mound
Of bones to decorate the bitterness of the salt-marsh.
Their heat will radiate out into the night; other forms
Will be taken from them & prosper, as their flight-
Energy is recouped. Impossible to know; those swift
Last thoughts of a dying race; that flare, then watch
As the warmth dies & blackens like a spent match.
They ignite our desire; square up to death, the fear
Of the world living on without us. It will. Our time
Is already burnt. There is no difference between us,
Except how our cells unite. We’re all the same flock.
We’ll all fall out of the sky in death’s grand migration.