It started with an egg.
Smooth,closed,a quiet question.
The kind of silence that leans forward,
waiting to become something.

It sat in the hollow of a nest,
built from twigs,wind,and insistence.
No promises. Just warmth.
And the slow ticking of becoming.

Inside,something turned.
Not a plan,not even a thought.
Just movement. Pressure.
A spiral written in the dark.

Outside,storms came and went.
Light filtered through branches.
Shadows moved across the shell
like passing hands.

Then one day,a crack.
Not loud.Not sudden.
Just a line where before
there had only been surface.

It opened,not with grandeur,
but with need.
A beak.A sound.
The trembling edge of life unfolding.

It started with an egg.
But it never really ended.