A red plumed bird sits on the branch of a young birch tree. It is winter and the tree is simple, unadorned with leaves. She is slender and silver. Her bark is coated in a glossy sheen. She waves gently in the breeze.
The bird’s magnificent feathering is apparent from a distance. The bird shifts on his perch, looking around with an intelligent black eye. At the very center of the eye burns a blazing red fire: his passion.
The bird spreads his great red wings. Red, orange, and gold ripple down his breast. In one graceful, fluid movement the bird launches himself into the sky. His wings are an explosion of fire against the blue sky. His sharply curved face is uplifted.
Suddenly the fiery beak is open and a song echoes through the birch forest. It is a song of longing and happiness, of joy and sorrow, of elation and loss, of anger and love. It is the song of the firebird.
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