SWAMP RAT

“Early on Bríde’s morn,

the serpent rises from the mound.

I will not harm the serpent,

nor will the serpent harm me.”

— Carmina Gadelica, Vol. I

Eggs gathered from the barn on Imbolc. These are primarily from Sumatran, Swedish, and Romanian Naked-Neck hens. One or two guinea eggs might have snuck in. Flanked by white-tailed deer, milk, and serpent skeleton on a bed of Eastern Hemlock.

Imbolc heralds the coming spring. The great serpent of the earth stirs and prepares the fallow field to swell and burst with green vitality. Demeter’s bitter tears dry as baying hounds beckon her daughter’s return. The Old Woman of Winter gathers the last of her firewood as her reign suspends for a season.

Seasonal folklore tells of serpents stealing eggs from the barn or milk from goats and cattle. We leave offerings of milk and eggs to symbolically tempt the serpent from its hole. They wake the serpent, who climbs from the mound, which wakes the trees and their blossoms, which wakes the bees, who begin making the honey that makes the mead for the harvest feasts.

“Venus eclipsed— enraptured by the evening, glimpsed by the morning, an Earthen queen of adamantine desire wielding hidden knives. Untamed, uncaged, fierce Protectress of her Plot.”

A Wormwood harvest on the Dark of the Moon—

Nothing like the smell of nightshades on a rainy autumn day. Gathering what I can before the next frost hits.

More poppies from my poison garden—

King of the High Sun, Sentinel of the Longest Day—

The fog has been heavy here lately; the sea of dead goldenrod seems to be full of prying eyes. Our livestock guard dog, Sylva, barked throughout the night, standing sentry, stalking the fence line. Standing at the edge of the woods, Michael heard something “laughing or crying inside the barn”. He turned to go check on it, but I told him that he knows better than that and to come inside where the fire was hot.