On the inky blackness of the painted, concrete front stoop, the pale-blue shards of a bird's egg lie scattered today.
Once they were whole and rested in the sparrow's nest beneath the eave of the porch. Now they await some wind that will blow them who-knows-where.
I am sorry in those tiny shards. I am sad in some small and yet enormous way.
Sadness is not so bad.
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