Spore Prints Poem by Eric Rhodes

Before the sun hits Snow Creek
I am there,
ready for the hunt
with my luminescent
orange vest.
I have waited
all year to track my prey.
Entering a dense grove
of young hemlock,
the light like myself lowers
toward the mossy ground.
Now, half my normal height,
I stalk.
Crouching, with eyes protruding
to grasp every object.
All senses fade
like the muffled sounds
into the dampness of the forest.
When along the emerald banks
of Snow Creek,
I spot my prey.
quickly, with the swiftness
of springing panther
I draw my knife and plunge it deep
into the thick orange neck of my prey.
Proud,
I turn to my fellow hunters
displaying the first golden
chanterelle of the hunt.

(1993)