Every thirteenth Moon

The sound of the Phoenix

Circles the gateway

Repeating its form

Thrice before dawn;

Cloaking, uncloaking

In Quicksilver. When you

Listen close you see

The eyes of all birds taken.

Hear their screeching screams

As if in a blue lighted dream

Some fates are worse than death.

Their courageous souls could not be crushed

Reminding us, we cannot escape

The pain of living without

Escaping the joys of living.

So fifty-six cycles after Summer Solstice

With the Blue Moon

The voice of the wind as Phoenixes

Seem to whisper from ancient shores.