The Dry Puffball

A papery, pale puffball mushroom sat undisturbed atop a rotting hemlock stump. I paused three paces away, motionless until the quiet settled into the damp air. My head tilted with a slow, dry creak. Stepping close, I leaned the smooth haft of my small axe against the wood to steady my balance. Extending one wooden finger, I pressed gently down against the parchment dome. A small, velvety plume of brown spores puffed into the morning air, hanging still in the pale light before drifting toward the moss. My head tilted the other way. I released the crown, watching it spring softly back to shape.