I hail the wind. Before I transformed from a daughter – we were always of the egg. Bluer than the lake, a few shades lighter. I hail the wind, but I will not follow its instruction. With my feathers I winnow the direction, I sift it for my intentions. It cannot take me, the way I take flight from gravity. Burned I was. Burned more than Magpie who kept her voice. Burned I was. Burned more than Currawong who calls evening into being and plots all night with the fire still in her eye. The sky stuck in my eye. In my haste to flee fire I took skywards and the spell fell through the crackling air. It took my girl-dom. It took my long possum hair. Now I am feathered. Now I am as coal, with my feathers glistening blue from the sky’s last kiss as I transformed. I call to my mother, forgive my jealous heart. I call to my father, make me whole again. But to you, to you I say: feed me your children. For with this transformation, gone is my shame. I will eat their hearts and sing my short votive song to their deaths. I have always hailed the wind, the one that took the fire up and threw me into its midst. It has scattered me, shattered me, made me what I am.