The little egg dreamed of flight as if his soul had been a bird a hundred times before. From within the shell he could feel the pulsing of its wings. He sensed a family waiting to meet their new kin. And so when the crack of light came, he was ready for the world beyond.
Sunken into a sodden nest was a plain, unspotted egg. In the dank, oblivious to the plastering grime of passing traffic, it languished to a concrete grey. The baby shivered within, its dreams a fitful mess.
In those bonny spring days, that lengthened and sang of summer’s promise, an egg sat snug in a nest. Bathed in the chirps of newborn siblings, it seemed quite content to wait. The world beyond, from dragonflies to sweet earthworms, were undreamable to its inner eye. The greenness of leaves, the feeling of breeze-massaged feathers, were yet to be its joys. Yet in that gentle heat the little bird in a lullaby-slumber stirred.
The egg that should have been bathed in early spring light had rolled into the cold gloom. There, with only the hug of a shadow, the mutations began. The stories of the births of the basilisk, you see, are wrong. They come not of strange origins, but of winter's grip. And so trapped within, without a feathered breast to warm it, the shadows curled through its shell to warp the foetus within.
As the warm days grew longer and the sunshine stronger, the chicks readied themselves for life outside the egg.
The eggs in the light of day felt as if they were each a pastel promise, each a new bird ready to learn how to fly and sing.
Keep track of your favorite writers on Descriptionari
We won't spam your account. Set your permissions during sign up or at any time afterward.