Fishbird myths

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It’s a purple lie,’ she said, watching evening clouds drench the flame of sunset. ‘Nothing lives in that hue not even when it leaches into the lake water where mermen carve their names in the rocks.’
I listen to the murmur of her words and the woodpecker-tapping beneath the smooth oilskin.
‘They’re creating,’ I said,’ like all men do, stone feathers. Will they ever fly?’
She laughed. ‘Only the sun births firebirds and wraps them in eggshell blue, and moon births silver water, where fish glide in winged suspension. Meet me here at indigo midnight, and I’ll show you.’