Scrambled, Poached or Fried?

They only had time for a brief chat.  They met almost accidentally, but knew at once they would connect if they looked at each other.  He spoke first.  Shaking his feathers as he bent to snatch a piece of grass where it sprouted.  “I got here first,“ he said. 

“What?  Oh, you mean the food,” she said.  “Thanks, but I have all I need sealed up inside for the time being.  But you are wrong.” 

“About what?” he squawked, flapping his useless wings as he moved quickly, pinching another morsel off the ground.  “Free-range, indeed!” He grumbled, “This is work.”  Back in the conversation, he repeated, “What was I wrong about?”

“About being here first, you dumb cluck,” she replied.  “You can have all the grass and seeds and other stuff you want.  Like I said, I don’t need anything just now, ‘cause I’m self-contained.  But I was here first, and you can’t change that.” 

“You don’t look so tough,” he said.  “One little poke from my beak, and you’re cracked wide open,” he muttered.

“Just like the animal you are,” she retorted.  “When you have no argument, you resort to threats.  You see there is still an argument in favor of selective de-beaking.  Get away from me.”

“You!  You’re not even an animal,” he replied. “You can’t even move around on your own.  You just lay there.  No way you could be here first.”

“Don’t forget,” she said to him, “every one of your kind was once just like me.”  She went on, “before you were you, you were one of me.”

“And where did you come from?” he asked, squinting up into the early morning sun.  There wouldn’t be any of you without a hen (and a rooster like me he thought but decided not to add). 

"Do you think it was just magic that you showed up?  Some day, when you grow up, your mother will tell you about the birds and the bees.”  (Some things an egg is not ready to understand, he thought.  Better ‘the birds and the bees’ than the hens and the cocks, eh?).

The egg replied, “What makes you think I don’t know about the hens and the cocks?  We’re born knowing that, it’s called instinct.”   The egg went on, probably a bit too far, saying “It’s like knowing you need to eat grass along with those awful bugs you eat, you foolish old rooster; it’s knowing you need what only the sun was meant to give, too.” 

“Little egg,” cried the rooster, “Do you know what it means when people call us ‘omnivores?’  We’ll eat anything—I might just be ready to try my first egg for breakfast!”