The Parable of the Egg

Down under leafy cover, he was. Ahidden, in his quiet bedding, lay the forest's foundling. No more than cub, slept this boy acurled with sharpened rock and pointed branch. Old trees listened to his breathing; mice chased away the crawlers; wonder ate away the night.

Then dim and fallow sun broke his sleep in two. And in a gush the boy was leaping out and mute-shouting in the still. Calling all the breezes and stirrings for a taste. Ear and tongue, nose and eye drinking n eating the morning's offers. Quiet as the oaken elders, was this boy thing. Ready for his hunt.

Ear to ground, eye to sky, tongue to wind. Just a legged hawk, he was. Just barely grounded, quick n swooping. Over anted mounds and through eel-thrashed waters. Stabbing, taking, then stopped as cold corpse bones. Asliding into moss deep places. He was no mother's dream, our found child.

Came a'calling the sparrow's song. Came a'visioning the swallow's nest. And with a run, quick as dying went the foundling up the golden tree. Up n up into the bowers thick with spring. Sniffing for the boy's sole prize. He was deep into the ancient dream when sudden came the feral smile. Fingers fierce n needing clutched the small bird's hope. Stole a nest's poor treasure. Apound, apound went his joy. With swift small jabs those fingers cracked and raised the shell to lip. But out came no yolken life. Out came shriek n wail. Out came harsh n ash. N with a shake, n with a horror fell the foundling. Fell the boy. Fell the last of all the boys that came into the world.

Acooing with her little flutters, came the sorrowed mother bird. Laid her eggs anew.

By the Bay