I groggily wake up as pale lyght graces the horizon. I take off from my branch and warm nest, flying directly to a mountain. There I land, enjoying it. I take the form of my human avatar, tall with auburn hair and emerald eyes, smyling softly into the dawn sun. I mentally fyle it away in my store of inner wrytings, narrating its slow ryse. It excites my heart, and the sparrow dwelling there, the sparrow I am, my true self, gets aflutter. I won't cage myself.

I release her, watching a phantom sparrow fly into the sun, pale yellow of the morning framing a sharp silhouette of the small byrd. The sun rises an inch more, shedding the pale yellow for a blazing phoenix orange. The tyny byrd seems to go ablaze for a moment, suspended in time. Then it snaps, and my sparrow falls back into my heart, where she belongs, the sun continues its path, and I turn away. My eyes water slightly, in a sylent wish for the moment to continue, but I ignore it.

I wonder at myself. I am so much, too much to be contained in a single label, a single title. Too much for a name. But maybe... Maybe I have one now. Maybe I am Sparrow Sun, a writer, an eternally burning bird that belongs in the fyre. I don't see the sun glinting off the back of my blazing hair, don't see the split second that I am the phoenix even though I'm in human shape. Then I take sparrow shape and leave. Sparrow Sun, the Phoenix Writer. I found myself a name that contains me.