A chicken stood in morning light,
It blinked and paused, then took its flight.
It didn’t cluck, it didn’t lay—
It simply turned into an egg that day.

With feathers, beak, and scratching toe,
It folded in, all soft and slow.
A pop, a gleam, a muffled sound—
The egg was whole, no hen around.

It rolled along the grassy glade,
No memory of the form it made.
No wings to flap, no eyes to beg—
Just shell and stillness: now an egg.

The world looked on with puzzled eyes:
"Do chickens shrink or eggs arise?"
And silence held, as nonsense spread:
Once was a chicken—now instead: an egg.