how do you want your eggs

you ask her if she'd
like an egg for breakfast.
she nods yes from the couch,
texting on her phone
to someone you don't know.
maybe her sister in Dayton.
how would you like them,
you yell out across the room.
this question makes
her shrug her shoulders.
over easy, scrambled?
she keeps texting and says,
do you have any mushrooms?
to which you say, no.
she laughs at her phone.
something is funny.
hey, you say again.
no mushrooms. how do you
want your eggs.
you pick up a brown egg
from the carton
and crack it in the pan
of melting butter.
hey, you say again.
i'm making eggs, do you
want some?
do you have any toast?
she says, but laughing harder
at her phone.
just toast. and coffee
she manages to yell out,
brewed, not instant.
she sinks further into
the couch. you only
see the top of her head.
you stare out the window
as the eggs crackle
against one another.
you see a bird
flying twigs into a nest
high in a tree.
you see another bird
bringing a worm.
it seems so simple from
the outside looking in.