Along an Irish Coast

Sea meets stone on a late March day along Ireland’s southwest coast.

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Mushrooms

Why are mushrooms
In such a hurry?

And where do they
come from, anyway?

Could it really be
That mushrooms and me
Share a family tree?

Is It All Workaday to Them?

Now I’m near the sea
And the wonder of seagulls.

As yet, they’re all one to me,
Copies carried on the wind
Above the quay.

I don’t know any of them
Individually.

Is it all workaday to them,
The soaring they do
On those snazzy wings,
The fantastical moments
Fixed on a breeze over
A patch of water
That might be hiding
A meal?

Or do they, as I hope,
Also take to the air
Just to be up there,
Inheritors of a
Marvelous gift?