Gazing onto the leaf littered landscape, I realise that my stark, barren outlook is undergoing a metamorphosis. A confetti of tender green permeates the detritus of decomposition, with promise of the spring to come. It’s a strange time, part of me yearns to feel the sun penetrate my core, yet a small nugget inside clings to that symbiosis between fungi and the death of Winter. 

As I sit in my solitude, contemplating, my sleeved hands hug a bowl of this savoury broth, so simple in its making but so complex in its consumption.

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