I baked bread recently using khorasan wheat. I had never milled grain for bread before and it was an arduous process with a countertop grinder. I was actually more interested in studying how my sourdough starter would work on a new variety of wheat flour.
The type I used, Triticum turanicum, (trademarked as Kamut in the US) is named after a species that some websites claim, possibly had its origins in the Fertile Crescent region of the Middle East, in what could have been parts of Iran, Afghanistan or Turkey. The Khorasan wheat, according to some others, is thought to have originated in Mesopotamia and then brought into Egypt . Kamut is similar to durum wheat which is the one used in making pasta.
In her dissertation, Tate Paulette notes that in the third millennium BC, cuneiform documents suggested that barley was more widely grown along with some emmer wheat and another free threshing species, which could have possibly been durum. Paulette also adds that in some sites across Northern and Southern Mesopotamia for example, archaeologists have actually recovered emmer wheat (Triticum dicoccum), and einkorn wheat (Triticum monococcum), as well as some other varieties of wheat, including bread wheat (Triticum aestivum) and club wheat (Triticum compactum) in addition to 2-row (Hordeum distichum) and 6-row (Hordeum vulgare) barley (Paulette 2015: 7-8).
Navigating heirloom grains is an almost political process. In any case, it was fun experimenting with this unusual looking wheat berry and the bread had an even crumb to it. It was delicious, like bread can be. I should share the recipe soon.
Enjoy the poem !
The dough is molten at oven spring, like a prayer to the historicity of things ..
Have we not imagined yesterdays in the ritual of bread ? While our pasts
lay embezzled, on the tongues of men, the sentiment of centuries colluded in germ,
echoing through heirloom remembrances those floury philosophies of change.
While I stretch dough to gaze past a windowpane, as far back as Khorasan ..
they were other names then, another elasticity in time. Faith is a memory
of settled people in lands of milk and honey, where every drought, every flood
spawns a new religion .. and the wheat, always begs the same old question:
Are we there yet, in the fertile crescent of opportunity ? The grains haven't changed
in their stolid countenance - long, subtle, germy, cosseted. In the granaries of kings ..
they are willed by royal decree, never to die in an eternal future and like humankind,
who score bread in the cuneiform of hearts, grain is always thirsting to seed the land.
Oven spring – In bread baking, the final burst of rising just after a loaf is put in the oven and before the crust hardens.
Windowpane test – the term is used to describe the state of the dough when it has been kneaded/folded enough and has a strong gluten network.
I took these photos while we walked the trail at Lobster Cove meadow and Appalachee preserves in Boothbay Harbor. They look like a poem. At 46.8-acres, this preserve boasts of a freshwater wetland, large field and a quite densely forested upland  I loved every part of it and given half a chance, I would have perhaps spent my morning sitting by that soupy ferment of grass and sodden earth, creating botanical drawings or writing floral poetry ..
.. but this prose poem is really about dragonflies and a lyrical questioning of the viability of some species of the order Odonata, on planets that humankind propose to relocate to. Of what use then, is a dragonfly?
I'm hypnotized by the dragonfly's
agile life path
or is it - a flight path?
On taxonomy ~
Marsh trails at Lobster Cove,
court me in grass -
resigned they are,
to the trample of feet,
or fate, in Maine,
land richly resplendent
in the iridescence
of one hundred and fifty five
emeralds, jewel wings, reds,
golds, pond damsels,
darners, skimmers, hawkers,
dragons that fly,
and this isn't metaphor..
I flee to be happily feral
in these teeming marshes,
soliloquising to this multitude.
This thick slice of populace,
if you police the species,
spawn irreverent ideas
of vagrants or migrants
or residents. Of these
I ladle millions with simply
the scoop of my hand,
from a steamy soupy puddle..
Hundreds of dragonflies
are squadrons in the sky,
a flight arena weakening air.
They meld in a singular
poetic brush stroke
of airy romance
even as my botanical eye
purloins them from a vast kingdom
to stricture within an Order,
of specialised missions,
their godly wings for escort,
or those that pivot
to a singular pursuit
of combative intent
and thus, genus is recruited
to sub orders and
other such self effacement
There are 155 species of Odonata in Maine which include the 112 of Anisoptera, which is comprised only of dragonflies. These hold their wings horizontal to the surface they alight upon, while damselflies (Zygoptera), hold them vertical, this being an important criterion besides the eyes, for easy differentiation between both, although they look quite similar. Beyond that, you could mull over the variation of corrugation patterns, the curvature of the various ridges and deep valleys on the plane of the wing membrane, or wing span and attached musculature while considering that individuals within the same species vary considerably as also, between the species. Yet, it was of great interest to me, that measurements based on the wing profiles from a single wing of very few dried specimens spearheaded whole studies and scientific hypotheses on the effect of these morphological characteristics on aerodynamics of the dragonfly.
It’s a dragonfly, I want to know why it flies .. so ..
Now imagine this complex wing architecture, the attached musculature that enables the independent movement of each of the four wings and the aerodynamic magic that propels the dragonfly through three dimensional trajectories, through space. The ability to manoeuvre in a way that they can fly backwards without any added expense of energy, their speed, agility and their capacity to hover, aids them in their remarkable predatory routines. It makes my heart skip a bit when I understand they exclusively intercept other flying insects while in flight, perhaps like humans attempt to do in aerial combat. These remarkable creatures can cruise, pursue, intercept while on their territorial flights, in chasing others like them or in stalking prey and some can even fly in formation.
Flying is arduous and requires efficient management of energy. In extensive studies of the relationship between the wing planform of Odonata and aerodynamic efficiency during flapping flight, it was found that dragonflies must generate 221% of the power that would be necessary to produce the same lift with perfect aerodynamic efficiency (i.e. from an ideal ‘actuator disc’ or ‘lifting line’ in laboratory conditions). Damselflies, operate with a less efficient wing shape in comparison and have to generate 275% of the power that would be required under ideal conditions, simply to fly  The overarching question in these studies of wingspan efficiency is, why are insect wing shapes so variable. No one has yet discovered an optimal solution from the standpoint of aerodynamics as insects have several adaptive and non-adaptive factors that contribute to wing shape, and only some of these adaptations will have any aerodynamic or mechanical relevance.
Currently, no suitable wing model exists, to replicate what is experienced by the mechanosensors present on the wings of these living creatures, that are responsible for relaying sensory signals required to power a flight. Eliciting predictable and repeatable flight responses in laboratory conditions has been tricky as well, but most importantly, inorder to generalize and validate flight strategies in the real world, field recordings are essential, but we find that a reliable field data logger for Odonata is yet to be developed.
Thus it stands, we do not understand many things about dragonflies and there are several reasons to continue to study them, least of all that such research will advance humankind’s understanding of unsteady aerodynamics, flight control, sensory integration and the evolution of flight  but each dragonfly has its own unique functional design and form, therefore, the task of learning about the metabolic cost of flying to each organism and drawing conclusions thus about flight strategies, is much more complicated than it appears. Until now, no human to the best of my knowledge, has produced a successful dragonfly except for another dragonfly.
My need to know and understand arises as a matter of habit, marking with gravitas this breezy situation which sometimes, a marsh walk can be. When I excitedly tell my husband about surprising facts I come across , I mean, who can not notice the science of it on a leisurely walk .. he wonders the same as I, why one’s mind cannot quite exult and float, elated on fresh air and sunshine alone 😄 Well, I try …
.. not to think of some innovative blueprint for a new drone, designed perhaps like a dragonfly or a damselfly, or scientific research pondering the inefficiency of those horizontally or vertically held wings, that somehow refuse to be consistent in their shape and size  There I am, in a marsh, dragonflies in a flight arena of sky, exhibiting the same tendencies as the rest of the sentient species and I realise, there isn’t enough grass nor sky for everyone. There are entire societies at play here not to feel crowded out, and I, a bystander, looking from the outside at their arduous frolicking and wondering of the aggressive sexual behaviour of dragonflies that suddenly taints every romantic vision of earth and sky that I would like to weave into my marshy poetry. Somehow, writing lyrically of how happy I am to see dragonflies engaged in territorial displays over grass, is akin to admitting I enjoy bullfights or so I think and I laugh, for I do or maybe I don’t. In all seriousness though, it prods me to think of the limits of acceptance, a virtue we are smug to extol, or of the questions we are reluctant to frame …
Do you know how we map
the flight of consciousness ?
I think that is what it is ..
the question I mean.
I wish I could veil my glance
in poetry, blissful membranous
euphemism, like lined coffins
for the dead but I would be
unfeeling not to notice
the corrugations in
those angelic wings.
Is everywhere the place
where the glade is pleasant,
the woods cheerful,
the waters run deep ?
Sometimes, all those things, yes
and the female of the species
dropped dead. It startled me
from my airbrushed soliloquy,
for blade strokes -
in a viridescent marsh,
had squelched irony
from the maw of design.
Nymphs in the shallows,
are a Neverland
of eternal childhood.
In the wake
of an artful airlift
for angelic pursuit,
are embattled skies
of conflictual ardour,
and comically painful
those cerci on neck ..
The kama sutra of aerodynamic love
yields outlines of hearts,
lyrical hymns to creatures
great, cherubic, winged,
but the females fake death
to squadrons of a militant
Will we need dragonflies on Mars
with no oxygen nor water to monitor?
And what use a desultory
as it bites the barren of dust?
Each wingspan a solitary delight,
those 180 degree flips
three dimensional trajectories
of love, for survival of the species
through nicks and bruises ..
Mating in dragonflies is a unique affair in that it involves serious terms like tandem linkage and wheel formation and a great deal of aggression  It is highly acrobatic sport and eventually a mating pair forms this heart shape as in the picture above. The male first grabs a female by the back of her neck with claspers at the end of his abdomen that are called cerci which are structural appendages that actually fit into species-specific grooves in the female. Once this tandem linkage is established, the actual consummation takes place which is quite interesting but involves sexual gymnastics involving abdominal segments and appendages for scooping out of rival sperm, some vicious territoriality, pursuit of multiple suitors and a very tired female at the end  The high male-biased ratio in adult dragonflies at breeding habitats, has in part, contributed to females using different habitats to avoid male harassment.
Females of some species of dragonflies (Female moorland hawkers or Aeshna juncea for example) are vulnerable to being harassed when laying eggs since they aren’t protected by their male mates. This isn’t the case with all dragonflies but many of the species exhibit sexual conflict. In Moorland hawkers for instance, eggs are usually fertilised in a single sexual encounter with a male, and copulating again could damage their reproductive tract so after the act, females crash dive to the ground at very high speeds and fake death 
As I marvel at the dragonfly, I appreciate what humans can learn and possibly unlearn from our compatriots on this sometimes green and golden earth, while I question if there is more to the poetry of the species than simply one upmanship, mean spiritedness, lusty escapades, romantic illusions and other attributes of our inherent genetic propensity, that mainly drive every conflict, every conquest, every war and all tribalism.
How much of dragonfly do we wish to be, plainly rhetorical musing …
As events played out recently, I had the sweet fortune of being the celebrant for a very private exchange of marriage vows (yes, y’all read that right ! 🙂) It was for a lovely couple, very good friends we’ve known for many years. I also had the privilege of solemnising a unity candle ceremony, as well as being a witness later in the presence of an officiant, authorised to lawfully seal the union. It has been a most wonderful experience, in these grey and hazy times.
Later, I wrote a poem to mark the occasion, a tribute to their nomadic lives as they work for the betterment of children’s lives the word over. I tried to capture what it means to be a couple, while being part of the United Nations, separated often by geography and time, which will resonate with those that are involved in long distance relationships. It is a poem on how love sustains across borders, time zones, long separations, days, months, years… a few aspects of the story are deeply personal to our friends, the rest being poetic license. I’ve tried to add a touch of their organic world and weave in some of the countries they have lived in … I have experimented with the first person narrative style which in this poem, stands for either of the couple speaking to the other.
The theme song of this intimate ceremony was an enchanting instrumental based on Verve’sclassic bitter sweet symphony. I have italicized what I borrowed from the song. There’s also a bit of Bizet’s Carmen at the end, which too has special significance.
The last month has been a whirlwind of sorts and when beautiful things happen around you seamlessly, like a river flow or you yield to the river perhaps, then surely, life is blessed.
The poem has been arranged to appear like a wave (best viewed on a large screen or tablet), given that a precious friendship was seeded in the aftermath of a Tsunami.
Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, that's life..
bloat of whale song, birdsong, petulant -
the rattle of tanks and thunder,
giant waves cascading cymbals on shores
for heartbeats lost
in native lands.
I'll take you down the only road
I've ever been down.
You know the one
that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet ..
those hopeful rivers
merging sinuous sentiment
into the shapelessness of ocean
s p a c e beneath the breast,
a vast rhythmic rise
in tidal moons, waves licking shores
now awash in stories loosely anchored
to transient shoals,
sedimenting the ocean floor
in breezy metaphors of flying fish,
fish like mammals breathing our air ......
The reef edge was always steeply laced
in a filigree of the statuesque -
Coral corralling within aragonite bridal veil,
feelings in free d
Rewind to retrospect:
Small Giant Clams
netted and harboured secrets
to the future we never dreamed of
except in stories that read as life itself,
long after the deed is done.
Washed ashore briefly on coral sands,
we were a tsunami of affections
seeking anchorage to archipelagic sentiment,
creating little islands of purpose,
islands of recreation,
sand banks of spirituality, floating islands,
floating plankton, floating algae, swimming
in the shallows like the time
I almost drowned
and pulled you to seaweed depths
but you came up gasping for air,
to a soul clarity,
we both did ..
Time flew, like I flew, like a raven
off the ark, to the ruins
of an ancient fairy tale,
where salt water couldn't drown
a covenant struck in a yielding heart,
the only living thing which I thought existed
in the semi arid of those lifeless blunders
that overstay their welcome on the dunes.
The stars of the desert as brilliantly
luminous as our eyes, blinking binaries
when I looked for you in asterisms and you
looked to me
under a red blanket.
You came with a sprig in your beak
to drier sands,
where we etched
the holy books of faith
to our own religion
under a blanketing sentiment ..
feelings relocated, landlocked,
then clarified in three layers of lake
amid a thousand cichlid kisses
darting under a blazing fire.
Those sun burnished hearts
south of the equator strangely rhyme
the same, while venous blood flow upwards,
downwards and across
that expansive meter
of grassland, where we fostered
the lives of children like it were
a spiritual mandate.
Those leached affections pooled
into a reservoir of love, a lake
that turned clear as crystal
in that turbid genesis ..
the celestial was most surreal
when I woke one day to the milky way
obscured by the million lights
along a river,
dazzling a grid of avenues and streets
and I know that to this layered night
was hitched the hem of your sunrise
and your cape of night stars
the one that would course through time
to find me with stories
etched in constellations,
of warlords and poppy fields
where the only rebel was the heart
for it floundered on land carpeted
in the brightest, sometimes the whitest
snow, ravaged by battle tanks, redeemed
by roses along savage roads
and land as soft as noni
and my heart yearned
under the same sky,
yours and mine,
by the geography of employment.
It takes a while to find one's feet
in the clayey soil of mangroves
skirting the bay where tigers
tread to glide and humans barely stand,
for the passage of time
has been cobbled in death
trod by the advancing cavalry of years
of those we knew who never grew any younger
and now, will never grow older,
but we had each other,
our days vivisected
to a standard operating procedure,
so we thought, zooming through
the virtual multiverse
which sagely conspired to confine
breath to national pleura ..
deaf to the ventilating heart,
blind to the diminishing 'soul'?
Are human lives as poetic as mangroves -
inhaling through aerial roots ?
Or a stone cold reclining Buddha -
His holy feet rubbed in gold leaf
having little use for a Midas touch?
Illusions of habitat, these ..
Reality is solely etched in our partings,
our separations, our prolonged confinements.
Our measured lives
to the everyplace invisible
punctuating our complacency,
like a sardonic smile
lurking without a body,
The world at its loudest SOS
made every moment a past tense,
as crepuscular as terse beliefs
situating ambition in twilight, that future we all desire
Poisons come in all manner or form and the ones found in the plant body of Pokeweed are potently toxic. Fatal in large amounts, in smaller doses though, they are sufficient enough to make one seriously ill. The ingestion of any part of the plant might result in symptoms of vomiting, diarrhea, convulsions, and rapid heartbeat. As someone noted of poke-sallet or Phytolacca: “It will clean you out from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet.”  The dish Polk Salad (made from its young leaves) itself is a form of survival cooking, a necessary thrice boiling out of toxins, like the purging of demons. Now what does Pokeweed have to do with Haiku one might ask …
As part of the Sealey Challenge , I took up the only poetry book written by artist Richard Nathaniel Wright, well known American author of Native Son and Black Boy,  who began writing Haiku towards the end of his life, thousands of them during his grueling battle with Amoebic dysentery and it quite melded with the Pokeweed I chanced upon during a marshland walk recently.
Phytolacca occupies that twilight zone between being totem and mascot of poke-sallet themed festivals in Kentucky to noxious weed turned rare famine food. As a vermifuge (anthelmintic – medicines usedagainst worms) it has had its use at a time when people were constantly plagued by gastrointestinal parasites, but today, it occupies disturbed land and is actually great food for songbirds. Native to eastern North America and the South, it is used as an ornamental in horticulture and is of some utility in biomedical research although for most part it is considered a pest or weed as it is poisonous to wild animals and livestock.
The berries develop from flowers that arise on elongated inflorescences called racemes; beautiful, symmetrical, predictable patterns like Haiku emerge, engorged on metaphor it would appear, they ripen to a debilitating crimson philosophy. Thus, they are quite unlike a traditional Haiku in construction, but if the flowering of Pokeweed is used as an analogy to poetic process, it develops more like a trenchant Senryu.
In the helpful afterword by Hakutani and Tener, the editors of Richard Wright’s ‘Haiku, This other world’, the authors maintain that Wright’s work was more Senryu than Haiku because he struggled to develop austerity in them i.e. the absence of philosophical or metaphysical comment, the absence of intellectualisation or imposition of an excessive rationality  Haiku essentially stresses non-intellectuality, a Zen kind of humour, lightness, a lack of sentimentality, profusion of joy and a deep connection with Nature.
I understand Haiku to be more of a practice in the ‘where, what and when’ rather than the ‘how and why’, while Senryu is more of a mock Haiku despite the similarity in 5/7/5 syllabic arrangement, they are more logical and less intuitive. Hakutani and Tener suggest that the major themes in Wright’s haiku reveal his desire to create another world in which his black and white focus would be part of his feeling for nature, that he writes more often about death and the setting sun, about the moon and loneliness, about scarecrows, the rain, about farms and farm animals, about birds and insects, and about spring, the season of blossoms and blooming magnolias.
Traditional classical haiku thrives on the connection between man and nature, and has as its central focus, nature centred feelings of unity and harmony similar to Zen philosophy, which also stresses the experience of the present moment in life or in nature. Within the seventeen syllablic construction itself, two entirely different experiences may be joined in sameness: spirit and matter, present and future, doer and deed, word and thing, meaning and sensation (Hakutani and Tener). Haiku embodies Yugen. Wabi and Sabi. Yugen is a delicate principle of philosophy in Zen Metaphysics, applied to art to denote the mysterious, underlying the surface. Sabi is related to loneliness, a quiet graceful beauty, and Wabi to the uniquely human perception of beauty stemmed from poverty. Japan’s greatest Haiku poet, Matsuo Basho  is known to have used the aesthetics of Yugen,Wabi and Sabi. His poetry majorly illustrates that if a poet’s feelings were conveyed in haiku, then those must have been aroused by nature, the four seasons, flowers and even the moon.
Yet, the poems of Richard Wright, some of which read as Senryu if viewed under a classical lens, feel like an amalgam of the antithetical, of subtle beauty with a strong flavour, like Pokeweed. Then again, isn’t intrinsic harmony of being, simply a matter of perception? Aren’t our words merely an inadequate contrivance for harmonising that which we are unable to reconcile, given inherited ideas of beauty and perfection? A plant like Phytolacca, viewed from the principle of Yugen, is perfection in symmetry yet a potent poison. What poetic form could deny the clear beauty of a dangerous inflorescence, its inherent toxicity that would arouse the emotion of fear or an action to self preservation, a serious aftertaste of misgivings. Even devoid of metaphor, Pokeweed is nature at its finest, benign in form but threatening a perilous interaction. Whether it be Senryu or Haiku, words do little justice to the thoughtlessness recommended in classical Haiku, no matter the strict adherence to form and yet words are all we have.
I have selected some of Wright’s Haiku to share, which I hope are not of disservice to what the author accomplished, given his own understanding and exploration of the form. Reading Wright’s process and the illuminating afterword provided by Hakutani and Tener has been useful in my own education on succinct verse.
Long myths of pokeweed. Healing colours of marshes are poison berries.
The thunder moon of July was beautiful, from on top of Cadillac mountain. It lost its bloodied tint as it rose higher above the horizon while slowly shrinking. The temperature had dipped, even though the month had vacillated between the dog days of summer and the cooling dregs of starry respite. They say the heliacal rising of Sirius from late July to Mid August made the days hot in those long forgotten times 
July is also the month of dramatic thunderstorms  and we experienced some that were particularly frightful this year. Through the zip and crackle of lightening, the resounding heavens created this ominous atmosphere like from a Greek mythology, a genesis of dripping skies, for Ouranos himself wailed of his impotence, his inability to action except in the assemblage of his warring clouds and dire sounding racket. He dripped like foam on the seas. Kronos as Saturn, brightly risen with the moon, appears to contemplate over this ancient spectacle, so close to her luminous being as he slowly strips her of her ruby illusions. There was a bright Jupiter to the left (not in the picture) that shone this July and made for brilliant respite, from a restrictive Saturn near the moon.
Saturn was linked to agriculture by astrologers. In Greek mythology, Kronos or Saturn was the son of Uranus / Ouranos (Heaven) and Gaea (Earth) and the youngest of the twelve Titans. On the advice of his mother, he castrated his father and thus separated Heaven from Earth. He then became the king of the Titans, and took his sister Rhea as his consort. Kronos was in turn killed by his son Zeus, the Olympian, god of sky whose weapon was the thunderbolt. He changed the weather and manipulated the movement of the sun and the moon.
Mythologies create a fascinating connection between stars and planets with life on Earth. For a moment there, the weather seemed orchestrated by celestial machinations. It wasn’t simply staid, matter of fact meteorological observations but divine shenanigans or perhaps, this is how I wished to see it.
These would have been the months of deluge on the Nile in earlier times. The brightest star in Canis Major would have staved people off the flood plains to higher ground because of the predictable annual flooding of the river which in some places was known to rise up to 46 feet !  Here, the dog days of summer and thunder moons are a mirage of divine charioteers that drive the weather. This poem is devoted to Sirius, which for personal reasons is one of my favourite stars. Canis Major spans over 20 degrees of the Zodiac in the Sign of Cancer. Cancer is a deeply emotional and intuitive sign while its opposite in the zodiac Capricorn, is cool, practical and logical. These polarities are ruled by different celestial bodies; in the case of Cancer, it is the Moon and Capricorn is ruled by Saturn.
The poem is more of a myth building exercise, loosely inspired by the Gods that control the weather and/or our fears. It is also a poem anchored contemplation of the cosmic forces behind the deluge of the Nile as it happened in ancient times and some facetious meteorology 😄
Bright dog days scorched summer hearts, melting icy lemonades beneath stars, hidden in broad daylight. And as Sirius dogged the heels of night, starry portent warned of deluge on ancient sounding rivers. Hearts aquiver, the eyes simply blinked a thunder moon.
A mirage of the night spawned a genesis of dripping skies as Ouranos contemplated in airy impotence the foaming mouth of a raging Ocean, and Kronos stripped a red eye moon of bloody illusions even as she rose, brilliantly luminous to thunderclap having shed the betrayal of a Saturnine deceit, a frozen rigidity.
In these breathless oppositions those oft repeated tales of cyclical depressions, regaled mankind with unstable weather. Low pressures stoked compassionate release of ancient burdens, on cue. It was Sirius that simply shone for millennia in the arc of the Sun's brow and prod the moon to flood a cove.
“The dog days refer to Sirius, the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major, which means “big dog” in Latin and is said to represent one of Orion’s hunting dogs. To the Greeks and Romans, the “dog days” occurred around the time Sirius appears to rise alongside the sun, in late July in the Northern Hemisphere. They believed the heat from the two stars combined is what made these days the hottest of the year, a period that could bring fever or even catastrophe. In 2021, the dog days span from July 3 to August 11.” 
“The full moon in July also is called the Thunder Moon because of the frequency of thunderstorms during this hot, dry month.” 
“According to historical evidence of Greek authors and later Egyptian texts, flooding of the Nile based on heliacal rising of Sirius could be predicted at the beginning of I millennium AD. This fact is confirmed by astronomical calculations” 
“Sirius played a significant role in every aspect of Ancient Egypt culture, a role that carried on well into the 20th century, because its heliacal rising in mid-August each year was the signal from the natural world that the mighty river Nile was about to flood. At the heliacal rising of Sirius, people would move off the flood plain to make way for the river, which would rise up to 46 feet in some places!The ‘heliacal rising’ is the first appearance of a bright star in the morning sky, before sunrise.”