XVIII-XXX

XXVIII.

Some four or five millennia ago
Sumerians composed a holy hymn
to praise Ninkasi, goddess of the flow
of beer and all the joy it brings within.

When water coaxes barleycorn to sprout
its starches split to sugars for the yeast.
They then in turn the alcohol burp out:
a heady, foamy liquor fit to feast.

Libation of the gods! —and quite nutritious.
It likely civilized all humankind.
So little wonder if we’re superstitious
regarding such a bev’rage as divine.

All agriculture, lit’rature, and math
flow down to us from great Ninkasi’s bath.


XXIX.

One night I heart a horrid howling scream
at midnight when the moon was bright and full.
Acknowledging that this was not a dream
I promptly went to bed, as I’m no fool.

It ends up that the culprit was a fox.
I’d no idea they could make such a noise.
The woods can still deliver quite a shock
to former Eastern Seaboard city boys.

But even those who know the forest best
report encounters frightening and strange.
It seems the modern upper north Midwest
remains a lycanthropic hunting range.

Romania and Michigan both know
that werewolves haunt the places we won’t go.


XXX.

I’ve started an alliance with the crows
by leaving unshelled peanuts on the grass.
So now I find wherever I may go
they call in recognition as I pass.

They wait upon the roof as I step out
to throw a handful high so they can see.
And should they not be visible, I shout:

“Hello, crow!” and they bark it back to me.

As far as murders go, I often count
no more than seven, never less than three.
Thus Huginn, Muninn, Morrigan account
the names I’ve given to their trinity.

A simple trinket on our mat bespeaks
their gratitude with peanuts in their beaks.