Day 135:
BOY AND EGG
Every few minutes,
he wants to march
the trail of flattened rye grass
back to the house of muttering hens.
He too could make a bed in hay.
Yesterday the egg was so fresh
it felt hot in his hand
and he pressed it to his ear
while the other children laughed
and ran with a ball,
leaving him,
so little yet,
too forgetful in games,
ready to cry if the ball brushed him,
riveted to the secret of birds
caught up inside his fist,
not ready to give it over
to the refrigerator
or the rest of the day.
(Naomi Shihab Nye)
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