A Billion Burning Dreams

The Nature of the Phoenix We think we know the nature of the phoenix: Wings outstretched to carry fluttering forest fires, clouds of billowing cinder extended from brimstone skin. Gooseflesh bristling with phosphorus feathers. The majesty of a beak cracking atoms in the atmosphere — lightning bolts to strike at darkness. The throng of a thunderbird. We know only the vibrancy of the immolated raptor, black talons clawing at empowerment. The eagle whose eyes pierce possibility. We see only the chick that trundles from the heap, its womb an urn, to burn brighter than a thousand suns. Its egg an arid desert, scorched planet, cracked salt flats. Its cradle a pyre. We think we know, but we don’t know the transcending ache: The utter agony of unfurled flesh;

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