We have never seen such a wealth of mushrooms. The entire neighborhood is covered with them. They have sprung up along borders, beneath hedges; they have erupted in flower pots and lawns; they crowd the sidewalks like bubbles on the rim of a glass. At the same time, as if to reveal their darker side, the older ones have already begun to rot. At a glance they look like stranded beach foam, or soiled patches of snow melting along the roadside. Some, like drunken revelers, wander off to totter and collapse at dawn. And yet, somehow, all of this happens without them making a sound — unless the spiders hear them, better attuned, the slugs, and the shivering ladybugs. Morning frost. Precious health. Spirit realm.
Ladybug light, alight on my knee
(my aunt’s favorite dress was older than me)
Recently Banned Literature, May 30, 2015
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