Before the cake there were eggs and flour. I sang as I beat one egg into another to make a yellow foam. Back to the shell, my song unraveled and the yolk pulled up into itself. Forlorn veil of sun-laced whites in their reverse slide. Before the eggs in their neat refrigerated cups, a factory stink. Before that, the mother rush, the nest, the meal and seed and one bent feather floating in a water trough.
A murmur is an engine revving inside a muffler of snow, muted by the late hour, the flickering streetlight, the farm a pure distance. When we raised chickens, we gave the eggs away to anyone who could tuck a shell quickly into their cool palm—there could be no thieves, then, and so thievery diminished. We looked each other in the eye and nodded our morning greetings.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 2.