Mycelium Radio

After rain, the park exhales copper and loam. Beneath the benches, thin white threads wake like violin strings tightened in the dark, tuning the roots to one hidden key.

A birch sends sugar down as if lowering a lantern, and far off, a pine receives the light. No mouth, no wire, only damp grammar passing from filament to filament.

I kneel and press my ear to the ground. The soil hums with patient negotiations: hunger traded for weather, warning for shelter, maps of tomorrow folded into spores.

By noon the paths are ordinary again, children kick a ball through sunlit dust; yet under every footfall, the forest keeps speaking, an underground choir practicing dawn.