The end of August. The Starry Virgin ascends.
The zodiac is simply one of many klatches among the cosmos, and its chatter does not offer particularly accurate prescription, description, or prognostication. (Excellent gossip, though—suffice it to say if Cassiopeia seems to have drifted a bit toward Andromeda, it may not be a mere trick of the atmosphere.)
And yet some of the folklore that has accrued to the signs speaks deeply. For example. The metal affiliated with Virgo is mercury. ”Witch the Third,” speakest thou, “isn’t it a bit of a stretch to call Queen ‘metal’?” And unto thee I reply: No, ew, read a book.
In any case, those of us who in this life first squalled to the sky in late summer do find particular freedom coursing through the clouds or along that witchiest of interstates, Route 10, on the sun-searing, soul-speeding chants of early 70s Mercury.
Happy Birthday, Virgo Sistren. Hail and Praise. To you this day I give:
Mercury Reflecting Light.