Improbable Cookies

Returning home, you walk inside, Awaken the olfactory. There, resting on the countertop Are cookies baked for all to see. Your mind leaps to the obvious: The signs all tell a story clear. No baker did assemble these; ‘Twas happenstance that put them here. Although no other evidence Is satisfying in the whole, The flour spilled from the canister; An earthquake dumped it in the bowl. Although we were at first confused, We understand the eggs as well: They teleported from the fridge, Just yolks and whites, without the shell. The gravitation of the moon Combined with a solar eclipse May have opened up a bag, Contributed the chocolate chips. An aftershock of magnitude Somewhere between a five and six Quite possibly could agitate, Produce a firm dough from the mix. The fluctuations in the lines Of magnetism from the poles Could open up the oven doors And set the proper heat controls. Although this last may seem a stretch, Our statistician ascertained A bird could grab some dough like eggs, Drop on the pans, and then again. The only step that would be left: A thunderstorm with static spark To heat those cookies up just right, Awaiting your return at dark. I know the chance of this is small, But we’ll not dwell, no, mum’s the word. What other option is there now? This talk of bakers is absurd…