The oxidized iron sculpture of perched black birds hangs above the cabriole sofa in the living room of my mother's house. Those birds hover forever frozen above the raven lacquered frame, and thick white herringbone patterned couch is bursting with toile and chintz pillows. The cool light from the window of the eastern view to the woods stands in contrast to the warm light coming from the kitchen. Could my affection for blackbirds be that deeply rooted?
Hierophant you come to me again on this day, as you have most frequently within the cards on my table. The familiar blackbird. You have been with me for so long now that I have forgotten whether I was drawn to you or you to me. It matters not, for you are my chosen idol, one who moves so effortlessly between earth and sky. I ask again, why do you come to this seeker on this day? Is it to share with me the paradox of ground and flight, knowledge and wisdom, time and patience?