Not the feather fall of fate turned to fortune,
wings unburdened by flight, or the care-filled caress
planted on skin tilled by seasoned desire.
Not ideas, inspired buds like bright fists opening
on summer gray mornings, or water met and separated
by determined arms, parted by slow-oared paddling.
Not even whisper of pencil breezing across paper, but
the egg, hard-boiled rolling slow across the counter,
halted by lift and blow, crack signaling settled stillness,
somewhere a bell tolling time like heat lightning,
jagged and fierce, branding the sky with sudden loss.