Dave Bonta's short poem feels like a quiet moment of noticing, where the body and the natural world seem to move on their own terms. The first line, "my hands think without me," suggests the speaker is doing something absorbed and automatic, perhaps working or writing, and is a little startled by how much the body knows apart from the mind. Then comes a tick, which "will not talk / to his old red comrade." The humor is dry, but there's also isolation in it: even creatures that look alike or belong together keep to themselves.
The second stanza lifts the view skyward. A swan above the world is "as much of the dead / as we know," which reads as though the swan is a kind of messenger, or simply a reminder that we know very little about death. The title, "Time-bound," fits that limit. The mood is hushed, curious, and slightly wry, mixing small earthy details with a sense of mystery just beyond reach.