The Egg and the Chicken
The egg laid on the ground covered in a thin film of dust, underneath the dancing shadows of a blotchy patch of grass. Patient by design. All was quiet but a gentle stream nearby making smooth rumblings over some rocks. An observer would see the sculpted outline of mountains in the distance. The source.
The egg had seen brighter days. There hasn't been a rain in a couple weeks and the earth dried up. Pasty red sand and clay and dust blew around the egg and the little stream. There was a small civilization of ants nearby as well, harvesting all the resources they could and always moving. They were relentless -- moving, building, creating, working working working, expanding, moving moving don't stop GO. The civilization was never big enough for the ants. There was always more work to do and they paid no attention to the egg. An observer might question what they were building it all for.
Nightfall was approaching, and the egg began to feel a deep chill. It didn't know why, but it sensed that it shouldn't be cold like this. Wasn't right. There was a longing that began to manifest. A need... A craving.. A deep, pulling desire. The kind of feeling that makes you want to climb a mountain and release a howl over the valley below. Yes, this was all happening in the egg. But it did not move and it did not howl. To the observer, all things were operating as they should be. The ants were taking care of the moving. The egg was doing it's part in the stillness. But what was really happening?
Meanwhile, a chicken was meandering around a small piece of brush downstream. It was pecking with a fervor into the dusty earth. Unfortunately for the chicken, food has been a bit scarce lately. Suddenly it looked up at the sky and quickly gazed out in five distinct directions before diving it's head back into the pasty piece of brush, twerking and jerking it's head in all sorts of angles with not much to show for it in the end. Then it shot it's head up toward the sky again and froze like a statue -- peck peck peck twerk peck scratch squeak. An observer would say that hunger was getting to the chicken's head. Bear in mind, this chicken wasn't lost or anything. It's been making steady progress along the long road to nowhere. All was right as far as the chicken was concerned. Surprisingly, it's hunger was beginning to be satisfied, and it decided to take some bobble-headed steps upstream in search of a place to rest for the night.
At the beginning of time, the earth was a quiet place. There wasn't much life buzzing around, but the sounds of the world were booming and thunderous, echoing like a whisper from a distant cavern in the hearts of everything. A primal call existed in the wind, in the trees, and in the swirling dust. The chicken never felt lonely in it's travels, but to be fair, it had nothing to compare to. This open dry land was all that the chicken had ever seen. It knew instinctively what it needed to survive and had found ways to improve on this knowledge through the act of living. So the chicken walked and bobbed it's head and poked around the rocks along the stream, looking for that prime resting place for it's tired legs.
The chicken turned a corner and stepped on the anthill, sending the non-squished ants into a frenzy. Then the chicken's eyes met the dusty egg and it paused for an infinite eternity. It was stunned. The rounded smooth profile of the egg was enchanting to the chicken. It had never seen something so perfectly beautiful. In fact, it had never comprehended beauty before it met the egg. The inescapable love of life itself swept through this chicken like a wave and it knew instantly that it would call this egg home.
And so the chicken walked over to the egg and sat on top of it.
And the egg, nestled under the chicken's feathers, began to feel warm again.