They are all the same
Standing in formation
Eggs in a carton
Hatching into a sunlit world,
Ready to attack life,
The way they have always attacked.
To serve and be served,
by the vast tracts of land
Of which we are so needful,
Beaks and talons,
furrowing unmoved soil
and red crests offering solace in their blood red crimson.

The shell is warm.
Too warm for me to leave,
to leave these molecules,
the iotas of material floating,
How could I?
I know it,
that I would explode from the shell,
and grab the fox by his throat,
and force my talons into his gullet,
and despite myself,
I am terrified of life.