Eagle led me into the woods yesterday after school. Read to the end to see the poem our hike inspired. A forest grows between the golf course and the bike path following reclaimed railroad tracks half mile (1K) from the school. Oak trees, standing and fallen. Those that were horizontal were covered with half moon mushrooms.
We walked a kilometer through the woods and the city disappeared. A sacred quiet descended. I felt uprooted from time. When were we? Were minutes in motion? We arrived in the spiritual home of the mushrooms. Was it once named that way, rather than by the family name of the owner…?
The mushrooms took many different shapes, as they did their work returning nutrients to the soil.
Silent workers, recycling trees, feeding tree children grown into the canopy above.
What is it about the silence of the woods that allows me to hear my thoughts?
oak trees standing and fallen
sacred forest quiet
Half moon mushrooms
silent workers returning
nutrients to tree children
embraced by the woods
hear, my thought
leave(s)–Rebecca Cuningham, 1/19/22