The Messenger

Propagation

4 6 Propagation A vulture will kill for her eggs. This one kills her own chicks as they hatch, a captive’s perversity. She was not born to this; she goes on living unreleasably. We give her wood eggs to sit instead; hers go under broody cochin hens. They do nothing but sit— their heat the singular gift of their bodies. They would starve before leaving the eggs. It is what they were bred for, their blood so tame I wonder if there is any wildness left. We, too, are in servitude to vultures. They hiss as we back from their nest. They have a future to protect. It is in my hand— heavy, alive, a warm globe breathing in its shell. ...