Burning Bridges Like Matchsticks

The intersection of mushroom season and my new found enthusiasm for early mornings has birthed a handful of meals. When I ride to work in the morning, I pass empty playing fields, railroad beds and endless yards, some more manicured than others (Madison being the oasis of liberal thinking that it is). Sometimes the greens are dotted with white sprouting phalluses. They stand like discarded clumps of styrofoam in the dewy grass, shocking white underneath a crust of dirt, the oldest and largest already starting to deliquesce. From two lots away their club-like profile is distinctive, and I've never been gone unrewarded for my sodden sneakers.