The Mushroom Hunt

Spring rains and frost-less, windy nights

bring mushroom season to the forest.

Looking only at the ground, I get lost!



Panic is better for me than boredom.

Running to and fro, going nuts...

I wonder what the cougar sees.



A car. I hear. I hide; I have no permit.

This too, the hiding; I love it.

Fear itself, himself... he hardens me.



Soon the car is gone... I am found in the dust.

A bucket of morels and a knife.

My heart slows. I sigh, smile... I am found.



I see my tracks form the truck. Is that pride?

So much for the mountain lion and fear.

I re-fold my knife, head home. pride for fear.



Spiral waves of victory and defeat

are woven into the cover I made for the seat

of the truck my dad's death gave me.



I climb in, avoid the gaze in the mirror,

push my mushrooms across the bench,

and quietly follow the dust to town.