The ground is still wet and the scent of frozen soil wafts upwards, beguiling us further into the backyard woods. Each of us decides to select a special, secret something for sharing. I find the prospect dizzying- there is too much to see and say, too many changes since we walked through the woods last week.
After the long winter rains, tiny bobbed mushrooms peak out from the foliage. It is Prophet who spies the shroom, and Prophet who kneels by its side and tries to sniff it.
"This is my special thing," she says, "but I wish it had friends, you know, so they could be a fairy circle."
Gnome wants us to come and rub the furry vine winding round a slender tree trunk. "It's not real fur," chides Prophet.
But Gnome refuses to be diminished- "Then how come he grew it? Hmph."
The Eldest lingers near a light orange fungus-- "a lichen growing on dead wood," he determines. Prophet wants to know what he's found; it's situated high enough in the trees for her to miss the view.
"It's symbiosis," he says as he removes the deadwood to show his little sisters. While he thinks mutualism, I think death and rotting and how the world is replenished by what we make of the recent past, how we churn it into legends and stories.
"What about yours mom?" Mine is the view through bitten evergreen leaf, the other side of magnolia's velveteen dress. At their urging, I remove the leaf and we take turns putting it to our face and peering through it like a glasses.
It is quiet. A dog barks in the distance towards our house. Home calls. Pinka needs food. We walk back in our heads, brewing wooded secrets.
