A barnyard in Smolensk, the thick Russian autumn--muddy paths, windy trees. A brown cast to the air--as if mushrooms were melting, gryby--an essential word, from the soil, ancient Slavic rites, behold.
Kampinos, the forest just outside of Warszawa. Half an hour on a commuter train, a refuge during the war. We met there once--also for mushrooms. Grzyby. Again, those same sounds, the "g" from down below, then softened--"rz"--made hesitant, ambiguous...
Jeszcze Polska...
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