In the first grade,
our little group walked
double-file down the hall,
around the corner,
behind our teacher
to the wing with “KINDERGARTEN”
painted so high on the wall,
it almost touched the ceiling.
“To see a surprise,” they said.
We went into the large classroom
at the end of the hall to find
little incubators filled with eggs,
warming.
“Baby chickens,” they said.
We waited and waited
and watched and
came back and left
in anticipation.
Then finally, eventually, the
little brown eggs started
to crack and crack
and little beaks poked through,
jutted between jagged edges,
fracturing the smooth, tawny shell
surfaces they used to call home.
We chattered amongst ourselves
in excitement, watching intently and buzzing
as we watched each little neon orange
beak clickclickclick through.
– First delicate and untouchable, now
a minor inconvenience they needed
to rid themselves of – too
confining and dark, encapsulated
from oxygen and sunlight.
Finally, all the little chicks
were out!
“Wow,” our little 6-7 year old
mouths gaped open
in amazement and as they hatched,
we cracked open
our eyes, mouths, minds
with a little more experience and
ready for the next surprise.
“Hatchlings.” – bem
heartbreak and cigarettes 