The march of the shrooms, my favorite winter attraction. Soldiers out of formation, an unruly bunch, which is why I love them so. They do not care if we praise their costumes or wrinkle our noses at their slimy spotted surface or talk about poisons and shudder, or pull out our cameras or ignore them altogether.
“We can grow where the rest can only die. We enter at the death rattle of all flowering and leafing, and make a banquet of what is left, the whither and the rot and emerge where least expected, in ones, twos or twenties. We are the signposts of composted soil, enjoying the gratitude of the gardener who knows our true worth.”
March, my little elves, my little fairy parasols! March to nature’s drummers. I salute you!