In the woods walking,
early morning cool,
one eye on the ground
for snakes otherwise
empty-headed not looking
for anything;

over a rise and down,
a rotten chestnut stump
probably 100 years old
and at its roots
twenty-three Morels.

Instant hunger:
the smell of frying
butter, salt and
tender mushrooms.

I lust for them.

Take off my shirt
to carry them home.

Real desire often
takes us by surprise;
pure delight
of the unsought.

  ~mce