When the new millenia turned, so did I.
The seventh born in my generation – the seventh in my line.
But it wasn’t seven I first found solace in.
Numbers aren’t important to my family, because patterns carry more weight.
And so when the first year past in calamity, I found my strength in blocks of eight.
And eight and sixteen and twenty-four went
(by way of rescued feral cats and innocence spent).
But the bindings I divined later in life always spit back knots clotted by nines.
“First to call, third on wish, fifth by design…”
Seven – bound to my blood.
Eight – bound to my heart.
Nine – bound to my line –
Nine knots in a golden thread, stretched twixt twisted hands colored by dead men’s dread…
And, like the nature of the spells I wove, I was entangled in its dreamlike webs…
And now, 21 years after that first call, I’m reminded of little lost time ‐ a vignette of my child self, posing as a nymph, wishing sly little witz to the mirror of my pool, dipping fingers in to see the cool ripples toss at its loamy brine:
“Why was Six afraid of Seven?” I asked.
…
Happy Seventh Anniversary to the Denizens of the Nest.
The bird is soon to return to rest…
The Bluejay Nest 