They might have been eggs pebbles of sodalite or chalcedony
nestled within wooden cups three and four to a family
It’s what they looked like: eggs lain by some prehistoric bird
bright of wing and long of beak, legs drawn up like cranes do
soaring over unmapped lands long since lost to us
While the fierce mother of these unhatched rocs (mythic, stifled)
waits somewhere in another era, a timeline far removed from now.
She broods, a harpy eagle of sorts, her face not quite human
not quite avian. She is other, mother of rocks that once were eggs
now metamphorsed into stone, no longer flesh of her flesh
no longer responsive to a soft whirring of wings.
In this other mother’s world, there is no partner to mourn with her
only the cacophony of a forest I will never know, although her solitary
state is familiar. I too await misfortune on my own, now.
And the small bluegreen stones that once held the possibility of flight
nestle still in wooden hollows that are all they will remember of a home.