Winter's end

The soul of the Lion lies in the heart's crown,

The spirit of the Thunderbird grows from the fire within.

In the instant of birth

the dark silence is pierced,

From the storm's eye

A drop of blood forms

and falls into the swelling pool below.

As the cold of night scatters from the branches

of the slumbering old trees, harmony once again

finds rest on the hollow bones and tender muscles

of discord's feathered frame.