Monks catch & prepare fish
for the order, trap doors & rope lines
connected to kitchens in underground
fireplaces. We pass it on a foggy day,
a crisp chill in the air, one that you know
won’t kill you.

They always let us in
                                  side their cellar
   for chilled brews aged since spring’s
   first clover. They keep steins for guests.   
   Mine is named Harold and looks like my body
      when viewed from the side. The handle is 
      adequate. There might be a ghost of a leak
         in the bottom.

There is hope in fog, thick as it may be.
And fish seem to know that they will
   have a nice ending.
                        

People are sparrows – loud, obnoxious
at times, and always taking in seeds, expelling
seed husks, spending their days at conventions
on wires, long serious meetings where none of them
move for hours. I’m certain that these chatty
feather-collections would be insulted if it were
the other way around.