The Musheroom Rains

And so he walked, even through the rain and humidity, past the signs warning that the walkway was closed – flash floods. Humid sprinkles and the background roaring of the river, reminded him of relationships. This was the closest he wanted to get, and so he pressed on.

Here wasn’t the rain forest climes, the fern clothed beds of great deciduous. Not always, but now the water fell every day. Seeds and spores unused to the attention found new courage to shadow their rivals. A plant war in the making, killing each other, laying out plans for securing future resources.

And as the bare feet squished and sloshed through the tawny sluice of shit and life, they stopped at the less common of sights.

One, a Musheroom. The only kind that filled his memories of the storybook stalks of imagination. Painted like a children’s book, illustrated by Uncle Sam artists of old.

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