counting the chickens
It was tempting - even thrilling - to make certain guesses regarding the potential
blooming inside the nest, days when whole narratives unfolded over tea and cookies,
when we artfully mapped out the trajectory of flight and painted ornate portraits
of what we imagined was an incontestable destiny. Of course, we'd forgotten about
the low-belled season of limbo, the air stale and glamorless as a waiting room,
but who wants to consider the incremental movements that necessitate birth,
the minutest fragments of bone forming and fusing in undetectable microns?
Our patience with patience was too thin, but we'd reach that magic hour eventually,
when we'd surrender our designs to the quiet intelligence of time, and in this yielding
we'd feel the minor quake of change, a pulse tapping at the shell, daring it to break.