Our footfalls led us west and we walked until in peculiar fashion
we stumbled upon a symmetric yet soft rock
who lost its origins to the sands of time,
but that we named The Mushroom.
It sat in a courtyard dug into the earth
ten feet below shrub-lined North Burrowes;
well hidden enough: people walked by
and didn't notice us unless they stopped and stooped and said hello.
But they never did.
The Mushroom sat cornered in shadow
between Hosler and Dieke,
and we admired it as some odd testament to nature:
this rock on a pillar that we took turns climbing on,
that we took turns speaking on
words belching forth
as if The Mushroom itself gained voice,
as if words themselves were diamonds
whose many rainbow sprayed facets
had caught our eyes for the first time.