Every few minutes, he wants <br />to march the trail of flattened rye grass <br />back to the house of muttering <br />hens. He too could make <br />a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh <br />it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it <br />to his ear while the other children <br />laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him, <br />so little yet, too forgetful in games, <br />ready to cry if the ball brushed him, <br />riveted to the secret of birds <br />caught up inside his fist, <br />not ready to give it over <br />to the refrigerator <br />or the rest of the day.<br /><br />Naomi Shihab Nye<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/boy-and-egg/
