We are in the position of defining myth by the shape of its absence.

Sean Kane, Wisdom of the Mythtellers

The bluebird's cold mistimed egg
fetched up from the one-legged
  box after the pair had left for
points south & unknown (never,
  as it turned out, to return) I
renested in the half-geode by
  the windowsill where it gleamed
&, months becoming years, seemed
  about to last forever, grow more
consistent with itself, holding its pure
  blue firmament up over what by now
was nothing, till one January day, snow
  melting to a fast flood,
I blew it softly onto my palm so I could
  hold its cerulean up against new sky,
home against home, where it lay
  weightless & delicate as the Xmas ornament
we'd just put away, but when I went
  to roll it gently back onto its bed,
& leave it there, I saw a thread,
  a crack, another, watched it sink in
slowly on itself, shard on shard collapsing
  from my touch & breath, relaxing
into the shape of its absence