After the onslaught of heated days, sudden and violent rains. Where they emerge above ground, we know there must be veins underneath of rotting wood. They disintegrate in the grass, in clumps of brown. Their mild stink hammers the air. No woodpecker comes near, no squirrel or mouse. Even the daily insistence of crows seems to have gone on hiatus. Imagine wearing a suit woven of their brown, sinking into the soil, loosening your girdle of spores that in other times almost resembled stars.