๐๐๐ข๐ซ๐ฒ ๐๐ฎ๐ซ๐ญ๐๐ข๐ง ๐๐ซ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ
In the Forest, a cut beech offers quiet cloister for this fungus, forming waves of theatrical curtains across the exposed wood.
The drizzle-drenched air has summoned Buddhist tints from within. In dry periods, that quiet radiance retreats.
This is probably ๐๐ก๐๐๐๐ข๐ โ๐๐๐ ๐ข๐ก๐ข๐, the โfirm, hairy oneโ, digesting lignin and beginning the long work of turning hard timber into soil, an early runner in the fungal relay.
No folkloric tales. No medicinal miracles. Just a fungus doing its job, beautifully.