The mushrooms arrived gradually.
First a few.
Then a few more.
Then enough that counting became inconvenient.
Some leaned toward the light.
Others appeared perfectly content beneath larger caps.
Snow collected on top of them.
Water dripped from the edges.
Nothing seemed particularly urgent.
Tiny insects wandered through.
Mist wandered through.
Occasionally a bird inspected the neighborhood and left without explanation.
The mushrooms continued being mushrooms.
By spring, the hillside looked entirely different.
Nobody remembered exactly when it happened.
The colony never appeared to have a plan.
Yet somehow, it kept expanding in all the right directions.
From a distance, it looked accidental.
From nearby, it looked impossible.
Livora Gracely 
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