The fungi were a softness, as if they were a nouveau architecture plucked from heaven and not the conjuring of countless patient millennia.
The fungi were the most respectful of garlands upon the giant redwoods that had passed many seasons ago.
The fungi were everything from the hallowed earthy browns of forest ground to the sweetest pops of autumnal reds.
The fungi grew as if they where God's own temple to natural recycling, the art of creating real beauty after the tree had given its all to living and passed.
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