The white cage has gone crowded.
She tries to lay her eggs.
Her feathered rounded rump eases itself
over the start of an egg, a temple, ivory and speckled,
the housing of a songfest.
He reaches in, that figure outside the cage,
Deciding that crowds are unwelcome parties.
She pecks at his fingers. He holds her child, her uncracked offspring.
Now out of the cage, she watches it. Dumbstruck and confused.
He goes to the door and with a swish, sends this egg flying up the hillside.
No one sees it land. It is so small after all.
In the cage, the other cockatiels are nonchalant. Wordy and pesky, they
Hug their water bowl and peck at the seeds.
Mother now limboed sits on her perch and stares out the window.