Cole Depuy
we hike below bare
knitted branches :: another mild winter
of quivering leaves :: I pause
at some fungus growing eye-level
on a maple & you continue walking
up the trail :: white flesh splays
into tongues :: scentless
as a fawn :: on Earth :: fungus weighs
twelve gigatons more
than people :: though both
are essentially weightless :: pressure slips
off shoulders the higher
they climb :: we hear a rustle
from over the ridge :: a grunt & a doe
leaps between us :: cracking the old bark
from our faces :: on the doe's
hind leg :: a wet flap of skin
flutters scarlet :: a wound from the interlocked
antlers of two eight-point bucks
chasing her :: they race :: heads
the size of toddlers :: humans are on the fringe
of food systems :: our disappearance would matter
little :: the bucks grunt
like underground dynamite :: the three bound
down the slope :: one terrified :: two
lust mad :: I look at you :: you
were an arms length
from crooked wands :: now laughing
& panting :: we hug
& I trace where ribcage
becomes spine :: if fungi dies :: the forest
will too :: we watch the valley
erase the deer coats :: they become
specks threading trees :: we're not
so fast nor so rooted :: we clothed bystanders
are awkward :: making plans
in the woods :: looking
at our boots :: a forest migrates
half a mile per year
if uninterrupted :: I remember
how it felt to sprint
downhill as a boy :: my feet
slapping dirt :: how momentum
wouldn't let me stop :: some fungi
reproduce asexually :: the sac pops
& sporangia just float
away :: ears perked :: sweating through
our coats :: we follow the trail