The Indians claim that time flows differently on the reservation, for me it’s true when I’m off the reservation. So this is a short piece on what the mushrooms think about “being late”:
And I’m stamping through the Douglas fir
in search of the tell-tale yellow chanterelles,
But they are buried deep and all I get
are earthy whiffs of mushroom smells.
Time ebbs and flows in the misty forest;
underground it answers to no one at all,
Stretching moments into eternities,
the earth breaths unhurried for one and all.