there is no mushroom hunting
beneath these trees
without hearing their stories
of oak and sky and roots –
of rain that falls
warm with summer storms
that speak mycelium.

our hands know what they know
know the scrape and twist and lift of doing
know the weight of the world
cupped between palm and fingers.

there is no walking here
without words for the trees
who hold up our sky
in their branches.
a deepening sky,
that just for this moment,
speaks a fish eagle into being.

One thought on “forage

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