Last night, I dreamed I was collecting morels. Heading through a forest, eyes to the ground, I looked for their honeycombed heads among the leaves.
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As I picked each morel, I cut it in half  with a pocket knife, to expose the hollow core. (That's one way to tell if a morel is edible.) I tossed the halves into a canvas sack, hung over my shoulder.

Noticing that the sack was heavy, I looked inside and found that all the mushrooms I'd picked were whole again, the halves regenerated. Each piece, like the arm of a starfish, having formed a new, complete body.

And looking back at the ground, I saw that there were morels everywhere. They grew across the path in front of me, and up the trunks of the surrounding trees. There were more with every glance. Ten suddenly, where once were five, fifty where there had been only ten. I could hear them coming, crinkling along on the forest floor, shifting the fallen leaves and the needles and the twigs.

I knew what to do. I put a morel in my mouth and tasted it. It tasted like butter and earth, so I began eating the morels. I ate and ate and ate, but there never seemed to be fewer on the ground.

I realized that they were poisonous after all, and lay down on the path to sleep.

More morels came. They crept over me, pushing their monopod legs into my skin, covering my face and legs and stomach until, eventually, I disappeared.

It was warm in the morel cave. And all the morels were breathing. I knew no one would find me, so I woke up.

In the morning, I remembered this dream and thought of the Sylvia Plath poem, Mushrooms. When I was in university, I wrote an essay about it, but I can't remember what I said.

Anyway. That's really what I dreamed. Weird, right?
 


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