The spidered light of a September night, shallow and sparsely flung about the room, reminisces the sound of a phoenix in flight, while webs inside the rafters loom. The phoenix song is like the pallid glow of a chandelier. Waning, yet resilient, it coos in mystic merriment melodies in the key of a rattling nearby mirror. Every so often the song completely stops, filling me with a silent bit of despair. Commonly this follows loud scores of pops indicating the cycle residing in the flare: into ashes the song bird bursts again. It's Rudolphish nose begins to scrunch up --- I see it even now as I fill my water-cup --- a sort of reincarnation acumen. But the bird isn't really real or here; it's more of a half-truth or memory, similar to tales of the origins of tea. It sways, forgetful on my cerebral pier, nearly falling into the waves of my brain, dipping it's feather mid-refrain, repeating it's song again and again, and again.