It was

a jewel of an egg, thieved by a crow out of the maple.
Small and blue, likely speckled. Tempting to say history 
is like that, gone in a flash.  Except there's no augury here, 
only inventory. There can be comfort from skipping myth 
and squarely facing the ordinary. Rilke said love the questions. 
Wait. Was't that live the questions? By which he meant come out 
sometimes from those rooms where you've locked yourself away 
like a book or a hermit or someone who merely trades their labor 
for pay. Drudge, nine-to-fiver, yes-man, hireling, hand. A friend 
told me she has a simple prayer for everything: Really, God? 
I laugh, like someone in the green shallows of a fishbowl, 
circling the cloverleaf for the hundredth time. A skylight
gleams overhead, wreathed in brambles. From endless 
listening, I think I have some knowledge of translation.