A floating island, maybe 50 feet across. It hangs inside a light shroud of mist. On the island, a lone tree, 80 feet tall and in full flower. Pink cherry blossoms, or something of the kind.
Around the island, three moons orbit at various distances. From the perspective of the island, each of the moons appears to be almost attainable, just out of reach.
A phoenix, all fire and red feathers, glides to the island. It lands delicately beneath the tree and looks up into it. A purple sky filters down through the leaves.
The phoenix calls out, a lone, plaintive cry, and the tree responds. It reaches down to the phoenix, and a single drop of sap oozes from the branch to be placed on the phoenix’s brow. The phoenix rises up, puffs out its breast, and bursts into flames before falling into a pile of ash.
But then the ash stirs, and the infant phoenix emerges anew from the soot and soil, a bead of sap still on its brow. It rises up, slowly, unsteadily, and extends new wings not quite in full feather.
And what feathering it does have is green with pink highlights. The phoenix has been reborn, imprinted with the genetic material of the tree. In time it will fully feather again, and it will fly away — to one of the moons, perhaps, or back through the mists to its land of origin.
In the meantime it relaxes into the shade of the tree and dreams of stars beyond a purple sky.
