The Mushrooms' Song

We waited. That mangy cat slouched past, turned circles on us - shat in the grass where we waited, rubbing hunched shoulders - were buried- folk, pod-monsters, kids on streetcorners. We were beyond caring, even then, having half forgotten why we still waited, who always waited a summer, a rainfall, a cat to turn it. Leaves rotten in a tree shadow, worth patience. But the cat - he made it almost to the treeline before the soil opened, irritably, and swallowed him whole.