Mushrooms gossip: a huddle of old ladies in wide-brimmed hats; a sodden band of children beneath ribbed umbrellas. It’s easy to discuss their demeanour, less so their voice. For, beneath their caps of gold and bronze, they tell truths inconceivable to you and I. Truths that, if understood, would alter all that we are.
If not for life’s modern world obligations, I’d watch the tomato plants in the window sill grow from dawn ‘til dusk. Their ferocity in growth astounds me; one day mere shoots and the next three foot from the soil, budding with flowers the colour of the sun. Soon the fruit of the nightshade will come, and when it does I shall feast on life itself, learning more of the world than any book or scholar could ever teach.