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Apr 2013
Again today
I hunted the wily morel, armed
with little knowledge

and dulling eyes.
I sought in vain through gooseberry
thicket, pucker brush,

cedar, tripping
on fox-grape vines, finding only box
tortoises and one sad

reminder of
an autumn pastime: the picked-
over carcass of a young

buck, bones and hide
scattered at the foot of a stately white oak.
I claimed the skull.

On the drive home
I collected six morels from a high bank
roadside. I took

them, leaving
the skull and rack of the buck. Balance
is important.
Written by
Brett Houser  Missouri
(Missouri)   
1.2k
 
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