One that didn’t fly


In early June, I found a robin’s egg. As I lifted it, I realized that the developing bird inside had not hatched and never would. Strange was its tight-curled flesh inside its shell, which had only partially broken open. The egg was weighty in my hand and beautiful in a way. I took it home and made an altar offering, hoping that another animal might eat that night.

Now I think about how this year has been one of deaths and endings. Projects I’ve had to shelve or let go of entirely. Some things don’t work out. Sometimes there’s a terrible beauty to that.

Angela Winter