I looked up and there it was among the green branches of the pitchpines -

thick bird, a ruffle of fire trailing over the shoulders and down the back -

color of copper, iron, bronze - lighting up the dark branches of the pine.

What misery to be afraid of death. What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.

When I made a little sound it looked at me, then it looked past me.

Then it rose, the wings enormous and opulent, and, as I said, wreathed in fire.