It was an uneventful summer. It was the summer she met a mycologist named Christopher James. A most forgetttable name. a name that was made of two first names. He worked in fields made of soft elephant ears —ferns sprouting in between the webs like articulated veins. He said things like Far out! And meant it especially with the distant look in his eyes. Every day she looked for some kind of pattern in what he did and said but what can be surmised in a person that studies the living  dead what can be said about a forest floor that is alive and invisible and thrumming. Nature is repeating itself because it’s just trying to get it right she said  but each time it’s a bit off she crowed each time it’s a bit not perfect.

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