The Reclaiming

After the rain they came, bursting forth,

called by warmth and moisture —

a silent uprising from the bush, encroaching.

They surprised me, ferocious in their arrival.

A fairy ring appearing beneath the swing.

I dig my fingers into musty soil,

The fungal bloom surrounding me.

Fingernails dark, raking the sodden earth.

Insects fall free — centipedes and slaters— as I pull the mushrooms loose.

Gather them in a small pile,

brown umbrellas tipped in the dew, gills exposed.

Their feral sweetness fills the air,

rich, sweet rot, clinging to the back of the throat.

I creep out in the night to watch them.

I feel them underneath my toes,

the moist, cool grass hiding the little mounds, waiting to emerge.

Mycelium threads crawling beneath us, knotting through roots and rot.

 I crawl on hands and knees, searching in the damp hush.

Whether fairies or darker things brought them here, I do not care.

They come and I wait to rip them from the soil.