Mycelia

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.

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