I found this little egg walking on Hennepin on my way to the coffee shop to work yesterday. Didn't dare pick it up and carry it, but after a few hours of working and subsequent meetings, I forgot it until I was wandering the rose gardens with a friend. It was still there when we returned (past a boulevard fire of singed ginkgos and a string of (un)related fender benders), nearly perfect or fatally imperfect, unbroken, barely cracked. It felt weighty when I lifted it, the bird-to-be still inside it, like the heft of chocolate (dark, not milk). I brought it home. All my bowls seemed too large for it. I don't know if I am giving it too much gravitas or not enough. I don't know if the abrasions on the shell are a result of something trying to emerge or something trying to extract or simply a fall from a nest into special service district mulch. But it's here, still, in a spoon that seemed the right size. Because the sidewalk is full of stories and when a person takes home Hennepin's offerings, they aren't always uncomplicated, like a cold tallboy of Pabst.