A mushroom ten inches high,

Hidden in clumps of saw grass.

Stem thick and fleshy as a child's forearm.

The top-flesh of another color.

A tawny shaman's face,

Craggy ancient skin.

Hard weather has cut them.

Knife of surgeon steel

Slices Porcini stem, exposing

Tender flesh, white and pure.

Mind already coupling mushroom mustiness

With olive oil and brandy,

Basil from the garden,

Sea salt and cracked pepper.

Searing heat of saute pan

Alters texture from firm to supple.

Salivating now.

From the deep green forest

Shaman face returns.

His ebony eyes are upon you,

Judging your every move.

Quickly,

Dig a hole in the dark and musty duff.

Lay the mushroom in the hole. Take care,

So that those who have been here before

Can return.

Cover flesh with needles and loam.

Wind pushes hard out of the north,

Cold on your face.

Turn deftly to the south.

Never look back.

Disappear

Into the green forest.

Go. Go.

Wild is upon you.

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