The burst yolk appears to be still
While its contents ooze and flow.
They scatter outward and begin to fill
The blackness that consumes both high and low.

And after its journey a splash of that yolk arrives
Resting upon a warped, weathered piece of plastic.
And in the still night, its known by fire-flies
That to eat that egg would be fantastic.

And how futile we must appear
to the unborn chick of the sky!
As it has defeated death and darkness's fear,
to watch over us, until we die.