Poetry

Hunting Mushrooms

A poem.

Photo by Fredrik Öhlander on Unsplash

I know,
Is more searching than hunting;
But for a plant-based guy like me,
There’s the only way I can use that word.

The first week of rain,
Is the sign to start hunting them.

Entering in woods we went,
Looking to the ground,
“-Oh look, there’s an edible one.”
But it wasn’t.

Most days,
We return home empty-handed,
or better,
Empty basket.

But on the others,
We fill our belly,
That we reach our annual goal for mushrooms.

That day,
Laetiporus was what we found,
Best known for,
Chicken of the woods.