This is when people wander out of their homes, into the woods and off the trails, looking into leaves. We were out just after six in the morning with an empty bucket.
We caught frogs and saw big snails glued to trees and stepped around spider webs and ate sweet berries and clover leaves that taste like lemons. A red squirrel leapt treetop to treetop. We heard a hawk somewhere. There were hoof prints at the watering holes, deer or boar or both. The kid sang a song about going back to school.
We were hopeless but happy mushroomers. The woman knows best and the woman, I know, mostly guessed. But we took home a mixed bucket for her father to bifocal and divide: here is death, here is breakfast, here is another death.