A miasmatic vapor settles in,
fat with the breath of fully sated bats
resting after carpeting the cave floor.
It joins with the pregnant elderberry
ripe and nasty bending over the fence
for bickering birds as passersby recoil.
She has an air about her, the dead doe
bloating on the shoulder, slowly swelling
with the atmosphere of a rank planet.
And so with the mycorrhizal networks,
tendrils infiltrating the surface world,
needing only a flood of rain or tears.
Footsteps, hands, a turning head, or a song
would stay lost among savannah anthills
but for the same need, the same tiny seed.