And if the egg unburies itselfSteffi Drewes
We found them drawing faces on the first day, in tune with violins, or grass whistles, maybe. If not for the heart-thud awakening feather-fists, if not for the coo and licking likewise, could’ve documented the whole fissure in leafbooks. Fetch me. A toolbox. Antennae. Collarbone. Milkweed song. Light breaks white and she wanna’ coo splash. First instinct of heat, of dust on a signpost. Be a good girl and smash into ripening. Buckle up your shiny bauble. If one wing falters, revert solid pink slumber. Her slick sewn insides and silkening upkeep. Taught to avoid inching over ledges shown corral and lulling lather from harsh weather or someone else’s hands. Until a little nudge echoes in her eyes, grazing shell baby green and shattered forecast: my what mammoth you have.
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