One after another the tiny bodies emerge.

When the time for birthing comes, they all come out.

Birth makes its own rules, its own time.

Strategies vary.

One whale or elephant child is born, and fiercely guarded,

While the salmon spends itself to find a place to strew its smelt and eggs together in great abandon.

The simple invertebrate spews its spawn on clouds across the ocean,

You;re on your own, kids!

The odds are some will survive.

If we told the sea turtle its eggs could only hatch one at a time,

a phalanx of predators would set up camp and dine at their leisure.

Instead, a horde of determined four footed engines floods the sand and heads for the ocean.

Some will survive, and those that do live long and prosper.

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, they say,

But if you do,

Watch that basket.

The strategy for the poet is to foster fecundity,

but give make each tiny life the chance to  grow in strength and viability

so that it has a solid shot at survival.

There is only so much control that is possible.

So much is left to chance.

Labor pushes out another one.