Come find me some chalk-white-sky morning, where I’ve been biding my time, a fallow field – I can grow a tree as well as the next man. I’m a crop of mushrooms, blindly waiting my birth, and sick of hiding – Come find me, in my horse-eaten hill-pasture – come! pull up the ground with your tunneling fingers; remind me why I’ve saved you the power of finding, and for me only the frailty of needing to be found. Come find me! For that night I rear up alone out of the dank debris of my underground labor, spreading upon the fescue my great irregular limbs – before and behind me, colossal, wet, and grotesque – you Will wish you’d come when I asked you. And you will not be dealt with kindly. And no one is coming to your rescue.