It's summer in the country. It must be just after lunch because the cicadas are going berserk, perhaps trying to scare the heat away. The world smells of dry pine needles and dust and roses. The mushrooms are only days away, a latent treasure-trove of primeval passions and sensual raptures.
This be a eulogy to the almost lost art of mushroom hunting. They who know or have know the delights of such an activity will instantly recognize what I’m talking about.