Mother Bird

I was a child

Young

When my dad came inside one morning

Inside his palm

There was an egg

Small, speckled

Blue and beige

Perfect and round

It had fallen from the nest

And landed in the soft grass

He placed it in a box

Cushioned with foam

Under a bright lamp

To keep it warm

Until it hatched

Since there was no mother bird

To sit on it for warmth

I watched it

Waited

The egg looked so lonely

Under a lamp

In a giant’s basement

What if

I could do what she did

The mother bird

Keep the egg warm

Comfortable

Safe

Surely it would be better

Than an empty box

And a lamp

So I brought the box down

From its place on the table

Placed it on the ground

Climbed onto it

And sat

A human child

Weighs far more than a bird

Far too much

To not crush a tiny egg

In a box

When I looked again

The fragile shell had caved in

Clear glassy yolk seeped out

From the shards

And mixed in

Blood

From what would have been

A baby bird