Vague

Can I see inside and find it?  Can I reach inside and pull it out? Can I look at it long enough to form the words? Can I commit to it? Can I be fearless? Can I make the decision?
Is this the time?

The little blackbird in my head is insistently pecking away, trying to chip its way free and fly. Fall is gently prodding with its frost fingers, nodding its hoary head. The scent of possibility is in the air. What does spring know? Autumn is the fullness, and the harvest. The new year. The richness of another beginning. I was born in the Autumn, a child of the equinox, and so my constant striving for equilibrium. I yearn for the fires and the magic. Come Mabon and Samhain. the mother is croning. We are moving into the time of wisdom. It is the twilight time, and Raven sees through the veil between light and darkness. Great Bird, whose image resides in my name, Let this be the time.