Black is the raven, black is the rook




Today is the darkest day and so here is a dark bird to sit in the blackness, to absorb into his feathers every glimmer of light, to call down the black hours of winter.  Do your worst, raven, rook, crow, clever dark bird.  Caw and call as you will.  No song to lighten the day or the evening drawing in.  A mournful call, a fearfull call, a lonely call.   Then sit silent with your glittering eye searching, searching for a treasure.  Bird of the darkest day, take the day assigned to you, revel in it, draw power from it.   For tomorrow, if it is only by a moment or so, the weak daylight will hold a little longer.  Slowly, like an old woman picking apart a seam, your dark kingdom will be weakened, diminished until your call, your darkness gives way to light and life again.  The stone hard ground will soften to the sun, the rime of ice will melt and shimmer in the little garden birdbath.  Then your cousin, the blackbird whose saving grace is a golden beak will sing and sing with his fluting tune and show us the black satin cloak, the Spring side of darkness.