Last night, I watched a dozen preteen 

boys hunt Easter eggs in the pixelated

gloaming. 

 

Too big for their baskets, they chose bags

for their haul, grocer’s plastic snapping in

the wind

 

as they raced. Each new prize plucked from

its hiding spot settled snug in their sacks, 

until, from

 

the ends of their peach-fuzzed arms hung

lanterns of multi-globed splendor, synapsed

and pulsing

 

with LED portent. Soon peach-fuzzed forearms

turn to timber-lined jaws and egg-hunting spring

turns to

 

university fall. And so on and so on until one day 

quite soon, these too-big for-their-baskets egg-

hunters

 

become fathers with sons who choose the pull of 

plastic beneath their fingers to the heft of handles

in their palms.