Johanne Renbeck


It's time to cook dinner but
he says, want to come
while I photograph the
circle of mushrooms down
at the end of the driveway? And

because the air is soft, because

the light is long and amber,
she goes, companionable,
visualizing a few little
pallid domes in some
sketchy idea of a round,
nothing much, but the air is
soft and the sunlight skims
across the field.

The mushrooms

prove bigger than saucers, crouched
down in copper pine needles,
rubbing dun shoulders, drawing a
circle as wide as a leap,

Oh, a fairy ring, she sa

Sun heats her
back and streams around her
like fire water, slamming
into trunks of the old pines.

He sets up his tripod.  He's never

heard of fairy rings. That's what
they're called, she says.

Down on one of the trunks

she sees her shadow.
He sees it too

She places her
feet snug together, arcs her
arms up above, casting
herself as a Nile goddess on
a brilliant pine.  He takes that
picture and when they
look at it later,

 he's there as well,
his shadow cast on a thicket of
leaves near her trunk.

Magic Man.

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