Horizons

The Phoenix did not rise tonight,
but instead flew fiercely across the horizon
like a pelican streaking for home,
its belly lit by the fire of the setting sun,
its wing as outstretched as an angel's,
eventually trailing a rainbow streamer
across the length of the horizon.

There was no such spectacular promise
in the orderliness of the day.
The line of the horizon was razor sharp,
like Occam's, cutting sky from sea with clarity.
The waves wrinkled to shore like folds of skin
massaged by the wind's gentle hand.
And the clouds were combed and parted,
the silver strands of an aged gentleman waiting for a lady.
Tranquility reigned at last.
We needed to be soothed,
after two tumultuous days and nights of unpredictability.

Which lent surprise to the day's ultimatum:
The fire next time!, it proclaimed,
but not as a threat; more like a pledge.
And as Saturn and Venus took their places
in the cobalt sky, above the crimson band,
and we waited for the moon's sliver
to cut the night's curtain,
we knew we had something more to look forward to
than merely passing days upon the earth.