Cartography of the Underground Choir

Under the spruce duff, a pale alphabet threads itself through rain-black roots, every filament lifting a bead of earth as if it were a lantern.

No map shows this city: streets of milk-white braid, intersections bright as struck matchheads when rot and lightning share a sentence.

Mushrooms rise overnight like listening towers, soft dishes tuned to thunder and foxstep; they pass sugar, warning, weather, a hush translated tree to tree.

At dawn the forest floor looks ordinary again, just needles, cones, and last year's leaves, while below, the hidden choir keeps conducting the dark with patient light.