A being of quiet strength and transformation, The Green Eagle or Verdant the Wing moves between the earth and sky, a silent watcher of fate and art. His power is not just his power of flight, nor in the way he bends nature to his will, but in his ability to set things in motion—things beyond even his own understanding.

Verdant the Wing, the thing with green skin, walked alone. The wind round him. He looked at the sky, the clouds slow and thick. Then he was not a man but an eagle, his wings cutting through the air.

He flew to the grave. The soil was old. The worms had done their work. He reached into the earth with his hands, his fingers pushing through years. He spoke words that had no language. The air smelled of dust and paint. Then Salvador Dalí opened his eyes.

Dalí stood, brushing dirt from his sleeves. His mind was already moving. He spoke quickly. “I must go to New Orleans,” he said.

The green-skinned man nodded.

They arrived with the storm. The streets of the Quarter shone wet, lanterns casting shadows like ghosts. Dalí walked with purpose, his shoes tapping against the stones. He found a man who sold land. The man was weary, but Dalí smiled, and soon the deed was signed.

He stood by the river. He traced the air with his fingers. He saw what was not there.

“Bricks,” he said.

Verdant the Wing built the wall. Brick by brick, red against the sky. The Mississippi watched, the water thick and restless. Dalí painted. The gold stretched wide, deep, glimmering like. It was a bowl, a giant golden bowl.

A boy stopped to watch.

“What is it?” the boy asked.

Dalí turned.

“It is the only real Super Bowl,” he said.

The green-skinned man watched. He did not speak. He had done what he came to do.

Then he was an eagle again, his wings lifting him away. The world below became small. The river moved, slow and dark.

Dalí stood before his wall. He smiled. His mind completely blank except for his Super Bowl.