Walking, Late August, 2021
This morning I witnessed a thatch of berry plants clustering thick on either side of the path I had been walking. Each plant arched out of the ground taller than me and framed a cathedral of vegetation whose ceiling was a piebald glow of the sky seeping through the treetops. The plants were crowned by festive fringes of small dusty flowers, reminding me of the feathered hats of Victorian women, underneath of which drooped triangular fans of dark plump berries. After stopping to watch a couple of bees rejoicing clumsily in the yellow pollen, I plucked one of the berries. Rolling it around in my palm for a few seconds, I squeezed lightly. It popped! Out gushed a vivid magenta fluid that clung to and stained my fingers and thumb on my left hand. I sniffed at the now exposed seedy pulp, but detected nothing.
Later on the walk I spotted what looked like hand sized blueberry pancake hovering low to the ground. I stooped beside it and brought my face down to the firm pungent earth. A lively zing filled my nostirils. From there I could peek beneath the mushroom's wheaty mottled disk to see a dense neon pinwheel of gills blooming across its underbelly. I cautiously stroked what I saw and felt the rubbery folio of these short delicate pages. At the pinwheel's center, a beige stock joined the disk to the forest floor.
Simple reality oozes with sensuous emissions of things. There is no need to embellish.