First Flight

The air: it carries something new when first we leave the shaded nest, our mother's tree, when first we make out for ourselves upon the crimson morning rays, the wings of fire that spread across the wild expanse, that do make drunk the morning wind—drying early youthful dewy day, taunting trembling feathers down, demanding parlay with matures, with plumage sturdier. The bird of fire, the blood son of the sun, does imitate his lofty father, now heeds the edicts of his kind, instinct pure surmounts nerve and mind–he leaps, the boyish chick, at last! The breeze—it blasts: A spark is fed, Adolescence is dead—engulfed in flames! See a firebird borne up by the rising draft, skyward bound: the first flight of the Phoenix, bright Wait...no...that's not right. *flick*