Food for Ravening

What is it living things are looking for?
How is it not all things are living,
Not all things are seeking anything else?

The crickets pulse frantically
In the late summer woods all night,
Life’s own heartbeat, chasing, chasing,

Chasing, chasing, and a bit of dust,
No doubt loaded up with carbon
And organic molecules, flies across

The sky to burn as one pin of light,
But it was not alive, or maybe it was.
It wasn’t wanting. It burned as it must.