If it were up to me, one would not
harvest the last morels. They hide
to allow for this discretion, even
as we pluck all we want in the ten
days of their season; and when one
does go back, connoisseurship as a
mask for greed and aggrandizement,
I like the experience of an admon-
ition that reminds an unmasked de-
sire, that it all has been plumbed
enough for one season, soil rising
to gather the share of its origin,
our truest, deserving connoisseur.
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