for excitement we play near the sun. in the alto of its roar, Eve, that red-headed woman, dances flamenco. on the edge of hardship we find joy as she instructs our steps: fan wings like capes, crane necks upward to lengthen the body, stomp feet like wind’s rush through leaves. everyone should hear you coming in the fire rivers when the migration begins. flowing down to earth, our heat radiates back to the sun bridges we cross for her risqué movements. we risk scorched feathers for our pleasures. the pain is tolerable until the scolding pathways heave us all full force into the inferno. our bodies, living potteries, absorb the red glaze flowing from her hair; we, like Adam, are the strands forever leaving. each day she fears the empty patches of her crown, knows nothing she does will stop our exodus, her aging.