Last night I dreamt a baby bird. Walking out of my house and onto the garden path, nestled by the fence was a dead mother bird. Her wings were thick and dark. I picked the still-warm body up and underneath her found a small, wriggling egg. It was robin egg blue, perfectly oval. It cracked, in white veins, and suddenly opened up.
Many years ago, I had a reoccurring dream: inside my sleeping headspace, a small yellow chick sat atop a golden egg. Like a wise and sage-like guru, it twittered bits of wisdom. Sometimes I would visit the chick atop the golden egg and ask it questions. It would always answer in brief verisimilitudes. The little thing was honest and smart.
I have tried to be honest and smart too.