Freewrite

Prompt: "Another dozen or so new laid eggs from any one of which I might yet poke my little beak"

laced, diseased, the eggs's pulp tumbles into bowls blue and white. we know they harbor the froth and grind of all that's healthy, all that's not. we wonder if we will know what first will signal the precipice of sickness, perhaps the shadow of a small boy with salmonella, perhaps the beginning signs of schizophrenia in its curled infant stage of paper-slicing, skin-piercing, hallucinatory, new-laid dreams, and the boy, his little beak of eyes sees all, and yet he remains still, refusing to believe anything could be so fantastic from an egg, an egg, any one of which could be birthing the very first Easter he comes alive.