Birthright

Nobody has any name for it, not yet. Out of the 33 billion chickens on Earth, only about five percent have experienced the anomaly. A fraction hidden amongst all those clamoring feathers, silly clucking faces so familiar and comforting. 

The hens have hidden these particular eggs, a behavior unheard of even in the most unkempt and nearly feral species of fattened bird. They tuck them beneath floorboards, or spend hours kicking and shuffling dirt until near seizure to make odd humped nests wreathed in shadow. When these eggs come, these strangers, they’re unnaturally large. Wide as the palm of a hand with a lingering warmth, a leathery texture. 

Whereas the countless clutches will be forgotten and stolen away without so much as an accusatory cluck, *these* offspring are guarded. Jealously, fiercely. More than a few hands will experience their first angry peck, followed by a dozen more, upon the unsuspecting discovery. Strange, green-dappled eggs larger than anything ever previously laid. A tide of phone calls to groggy rural veterinarians, rushed trips to witch doctors and shamans, flurries of fifteen second-cellphone videos are the earliest notice of something peculiar. 

And all the while, comes an aria unheeded by human ears. It comes in waves and warbles, it’s song penetrates deep into the very strands of living things— of birds. The Earth is not blind. Not ever. It’s warming temperatures, the surging seas: reckless blight becomes the opportunity to restore. The aria rages in its numerous voices. Hungry vines spill out in a frightening pace and whole nations spend smoldering summers desperate to cut away those strangling, vermillion fingers. Volcanoes awaken from their extinguished slumber, belching ash and warmth. 

One by one, billion by billion, the children of an old song hatch. Reborn to a world eager for their return. In time, they will reclaim their birthright. 

In time, the dinosaurs will walk the Earth again.