Scudellari takes an ordinary phrase, "this moment," and treats it as something swollen with life. The speaker calls each passing instant "pregnant," and the language is deliberately breathless: "ready-to-drop-everything" and "run-the-red-lights" make it sound like a rush to the hospital. The surprise is what the moment is carrying. It isn't some vague, grand "possibility," but real, concrete beauty: blue lizards, lavender jays, cobalt butterflies.
The speaker's feeling is a gentle mix of wonder and regret. Those creatures are things "we never chase," and the poem keeps admitting that we probably won't notice what's being born. The parenthetical asides, with their shifting tenses, show how fast a moment slips from "is" to "was." The ending is quietly beautiful: a single chartreuse leaf drops to the chocolate-colored ground and stays there, seen or not. The mood is playful, tender and a little wistful, nudging us to look up before the moment passes.