Jack Scott writes

An Amber Husk

The egg was laid inside the fern, 
a fecund nest, unseen, forgotten 
except by what was in the egg 
incubating 
beneath the distant, 
other mother sun.

A quirk -
too dry, too hot, 
too something, 
too something not, 
too long becoming, 
yolk parched to ivory, 
shriveled into wizened nut, 
albumin to cellophane, 
its shell an amber husk.
   
Egg became a vacancy, 
its tenant gone 
and none to come.

It happens, a statistic. 
There are many ferns 
(They prosper.) 
and many eggs, 
the same; 
this is but one. 
This is death, 
but not extinction. 
There will be more 
to come.