Mushroom-picking prose poems

Who is Auricularia auricula's umbrella for?

I can't find any trace of it on the vulgar flat ground.

Most of them gather in the mountains, rise to a height and live in a quiet corner.

I walked towards the deep mountains.

First of all, the vegetation is messy and disorderly, which ruled out my arrival.

I am careful not to disturb the verdant and elegant territory with four distinct seasons.

There are birds singing, as if singing. I am an unwelcome visitor, so listening to this song is obviously out of rhythm.

***

I pray for tolerance around me in my heart.

Many small animals are walking leisurely, walking on their own planned journey.

This is a whole, although bacteria are scattered and rooted in the gaps of vegetation. And sleep on the edge of the silent night, bear the cold light of the moon, sip the sunshine every day and gather the light left by the trees. Then, at the right time, I put my body into a small umbrella and thought about who to shelter from the wind and rain. Soon, I withered and returned to my birthplace.

***

I picked up some mushrooms, and I dare not expect too much.

Forgotten fragments of time spread out in front of me, but I am an ordinary person, unable to enter it and read its pages of stories.

They are hidden in the deep mountains, covered with the true colors of the earth, and an irreplaceable fragrance comes to me.

Their modesty and low-key, has grown into a natural art without human knives.