Wrapped in white porcelain, hollowed inside the ovoid sphere,
Does the tiny embryonic bird dream of wings?
Its cells divide and compound its being, making this bit bone
And that bit feather. Its throat filled with amniotic fluid,
Where its song will lodge. Does it dream of the rainforest
Or magenta petals of the flower? Newly created feathers
Sprout from cells whose calling are colors of blue or red
Or green. Does the forming Aves dream of brilliant skies,
the feel of the wind under those fetal wings? Is the map
to migratory destinations written in its infant marrow?
The fragility of bone, flesh, flight, feathers, heart,
Blood, song, wings- does the tiny nascent bird dream?
Kathleen G. Everett © 2012