I could say that the shell is thinner than a fingernail but that would not be true. The shell is a shiver. It is a slice. It is the color of the veins beneath the skin of my wrist. The color of the veins at my son’s soft temple.
The shell is cracked open and whatever was within it is now gone. The albumen. The amniotic fluid. The fluid. All gone. Beneath the shell, darkness spreads.
The mother may have tossed it from the nest in a fit of cleaning or another creature got it and gnawed through to the tender bone within.
The shell is always left behind. It belongs to the sky.
Not to you.
Never to you.