“Mushroom Hunting at the Ski Basin”

Driving up the ski-basin road, I spot purple asters
  and know it is time; near a blood-red, white-
flecked amanita, I dig two red-capped boletes
  out of the earth; green-stained Lactarius

and yellow-capped Cortinarius vanished decades ago,
  but, hunting mushrooms, I deepen through repetition.
A dancer repeats steps until she no longer knows
  any steps; a violinist plays notes until he is living

in the marrow of silences. When clouds gather
  and gather, I cannot predict lightning and rain;
I step on dry topsoil but sense moisture beneath.
  In this life, if you do not know what you are looking for,

how can you find it? A great horned owlet
  perched on a branch sees into a world at dusk;
a bee hovers over a saguaro blossom
  in noon heat. Foraging among spruce and fir,

I wander over an unseen web of mycelium
  connecting all roots and branches;
a thrumming in my bones marks
  an underworld beginning to burst into sight.