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by Lenore Plassman

You spanned a morel between your fingers
and pointed out a cottonwood
"They're found here
at the edges of the leaves."
We both wrinkled into another age
your off-handed tales
of your dad plowing
behind Percherons
sifting deep into my own humus.

Sitting on a mossed over cedar log
willing the woodland to live
a silent flute at my lips
I would wait
and first the chickadees would pipe
then another's frantic scrabble
sketched rough from fronds.

The seeking of the morel
and the ducking beneath cedar
all a sphere without time
and common scent.


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