Dave Bonta's "Fleeting" packs a huge thought into just four short lines. The first two make a startling claim: a whole life passing in a single day. It's the old idea that time rushes by, squeezed down until years feel like hours. The speaker doesn't dwell on it or explain it. The thought simply arrives.
Then the poem turns to the body. "All out of air" could mean the speaker is literally breathless, perhaps from climbing or running, or it could mean the realization has knocked the wind out of them. The poem leaves that open. What the speaker does next is quietly striking: they look for crows. Maybe the birds are a comfort, a sign that the ordinary world goes on. Crows can also carry a hint of death, though the poem never says so. The mood is hushed and a little dizzy, caught between awe and unease, with the speaker reaching for something living to look at while time slips away.