The fire and the rain and the weeping tree looked at the tiny bird (or at least most thought it was a bird) as it fought its way out of the shell.

“It is my child,” said the fire, “it shall burn as I do and men and women will be consumed by its flames. None shall escape it.”

“It is my child,” said the rain, “it shall wash away old wounds as I do and make the world anew. Young and old shall feel its cool touch and be refreshed.”

“It is my child,” said the tree, “For those who know it shall weep as I do and yet still grow strong. It will take even as it gives.”

At last the egg fell away, and the bird (or at least most thought it was a bird) spread its golden wings under the light of the sun. And the fire and the rain and the weeping tree knew that they were all three of them correct.