Of Eggs and Blogs . . .

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It wasn't much of a nest, as nests go
Some birds' nests can be elaborate, intricate feats of artistic engineering
Using a varety of materials interwoven, intertwined in surpising ingenuity
But this one was just a pile of twigs barely holding together at all
With hardly any form, a stiff breeze would have blown it all to bits
Yet despite the fairly feeble final result, the large mother pigeon had worked
For several days collecting her chosen twigs and piling them up
In the top of a bush right by the side of our house
Why she chose that spot is anyone's guess
Who could fathom the depths of a bird's pea sized brain ?
She probably didn't imagine that she was going to be disturbed and perturbed
Every time we came in and out of our house or took the trash out
Each time I went by, even if trying to give her and her fragile nest a wide berth
Tip-toe-ing quietly, she would erupt out of the bush with a great flapping of wings
And go soaring off into the distance, returning only after we were long gone
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She laid two eggs on that pile of sticks and she sat on them
For days on end this went on, her frequent obviously terrified flights
From our unintentional interruptions of her peace and quiet
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But last week we realized she had left and wasn't coming back
She abandoned her two bright white eggs to their lonely fate
Whatever life might have been in its embryonic beginnings
Had no doubt quickly grown cold and faded out slowly
In the still chilly Spring nights
An unfulfilled promise of flight that was not to be
And with what feelings did that mother pigeon fly off ?
Did she leave with a broken heart, grieving ?
Or is giving up on a poorly chosen nesting site
Just something that happens in the bird world
And perhaps not a major tragedy ?
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What is it about the form of an egg
That is so appealing to the eye ?
And that famous question...
Which came first, bird or egg, egg or bird ?
Considerable food for thought there
I carefully took the nest out of the bush
To have a closer look
Even so, one egg rolled from its precarious perch
And broke on the ground, leaving only one intact to ponder
The infinite oval form fascinating
The hidden worlds within of mystery
A source of life waiting to be born
Cracking through the surface
Waiting to take flight
And travel the world
Soaring high above cities and forests and fields
Seeking sustenance
Craving company and warmth
Bearing the spark of life
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And is a blog not a bit like an egg ?
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