It rains for two days; on the third day,
a fine mist in the humid air. Dampness
in your bones. All over the yard,
clumps of ringless honey mushrooms,
colonies thriving on decayed matter.
They are just the outer fringe; they
are almost unkillable. A scientist
described them as a humming
laboratory, a hive mind working on
a structure that will survive into
the future. Even the stump of a giant
oak that used to tower in the grass
is giving up its defenses—plate
after plate of dry, loosened bark.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
