on tunnel-sprites

Come witness the mystery with us below, down under the howling wind and blinding snow. We're speaking of tunnel-sprites, mischievous things, who move by silently and fly without wings. Their presence we recognize in broken jars, in base-of-neck tickles and static-filled tunes, in portends foreboding and feelings of doom, in yellowish pricks of light that look like stars. Now unwary travelers they lead astray, to starve in a dead-end far from light of day, now turned-around toddlers they shower with care, and lead them to safety straight back to warm lairs. Their stories reach far back, to times long since passed, their legends are sung about and set in glass. To please the sprites heap up some fresh apple-skin, upon a cave's doorstep, where homesteads begin, and set out a saucer of honey and wine, next morning the serving-plates empty you'll find. The sprites can be brutal, but sometimes they help, if lost and in trouble just call out or yelp, then let go of worry, selfishness, and spite, close eyes and sit calmly and wait for a sprite. But if one is angry or jealous or crass, if planning to capture or disrupt the flow, of tunnel-sprite glory then this one should know, that these little creatures of minuscule mass, will quickly abandon, confuse, and confound, and leave one for dead very deep underground.

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