This was not a good place to be an egg.
Indeed, how such an egg had arrived here was a bit of a mystery. There was no nest to be seen, no signs of pigeon life at all in fact. Only the egg, tucked away in the hollow of the curb, undamaged and whole. It was as if someone had purposely left it there, either to be hidden or to be found, and so it lay for some time, its mottled grey coloring camouflaged against the cement. The wind had collected detritus around it, an impromptu nest of newspaper and fast food wrappings, and the tiny egg was sheltered -- as much as could be possible -- by the trash.
Just how long the egg had been on the bridge was anyone's guess. It hadn't attracted any attention, that was sure; the cars that rushed past paid little heed to a speckled egg, and what little foot traffic dared to cross the bridge passed over its location without a second look. It could have been there for hours, or days, and no one would have noticed.
Now, though, something was changing, though no one would take heed of it.
The egg was....shaking, somewhat, irrespective of the traffic that rattled over the bridge. Pushed from something inside, pressed on by tiny life, the egg would give the occasional jump and wobble as the creature inside became aware and struggled to be let free.
