Superman Aborted

How bird-like a new fetus is, like a chick in an egg, the delicate spine curved, all the fine bones promissory wish-bones tucked into s floating nest. Unseen embryonic pathways are not yet cleared, diverse divisions are still dividing. Genetics uncertain for an interval, a pause. In the blood bound sac a reptilian blastula breaks through to be human, a primordial development reenacted as a timeless secret. As a young child I really thought I was Superman. I would jump off ever higher elevations arms outstretched until at last I broke my legs. Reality was my kryptonite. Yet like a fledgling I was just readying myself for flight. My mothers womb was closed tight within it still the residue of broken wings; they would have to be expelled before I could be forever grounded. Songbirds now come to my bird table. I listen to their chipping beaks as they crack seeds. None stay long for fear of the circling hawks, yet they sing on the wing, to me, they seem to warble triumphantly of eggs hatched and eggs unhatched.