Strange, our not knowing
why the nighthawk lay still,
crouched on that high roof
where camouflage was cool.
We should have known. You proved
with the toss of a pebble
it was not death that turned
those eyes to chips of opal,
unlikely jewels folded
in an old paisley shawl.
Patience sheltered the bird
like dusk. Then the rung bell
tolled her fear to wing,
and we rose then, until,
made separate, we saw
the mottled egg left small:
an unprotected symbol;
warm, fragile, whole.
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